


Holding His Horses

by allofmyshit



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Modern AU, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, and ponies too, everybody is a horse, lots of horses, rich boy!marco, stablehand!jean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-07 06:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 95,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3164516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allofmyshit/pseuds/allofmyshit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean needs money, and he needs it bad. He's lost job after job, and his name is beginning to become somewhat of an urban legend in the city. When work finds him and he's given the duty of stablehand at the ritzy West Trost Acres, he gets a chance to start again and  pay back his debts. </p><p>The only catch is that Jean must overcome a lifelong trauma that's haunted his dreams for years to succeed.</p><p>With the help of Marco, Krista, and a stubborn little pony named Levi, Jean slowly learns that healing comes slow, and that love can be found in all shapes and sizes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Devil Ponies and Bad Puns

**Author's Note:**

> It's not a complicated AU, not really; there's not really anything separating those characters with hands from those unlucky enough to get four hooves. I just wanted to write about an angry-Shetland-Pony-Levi, okay?
> 
> This is my [personal tumblr](http://i-am-da-trench.tumblr.com/) and my [fanfiction tumblr](http://all-of-my-shit.tumblr.com/). Go nuts.  
> I'm tracking tag: fanfic hhh

I have never been so frustrated with any goddamn animal ever before in my whole goddamn life.  This damn showpony is the worst creature in existence, I decide, mentally swearing the horse to death. 

A scruffy, jet black color, the pony is the shortest of all the little children’s horses frolicking through West Trost Acres. You'd think it was cheerful and easygoing, eager to please, right?

That's what I thought. 

It bares its little teeth at me and whickers threateningly as I tug desperately on the horse’s reins.  My arms burn with effort – this little fucker is going to exert me before I even get around to shoveling the mountains horse shit.  No matter how much weight I throw into my tugs, the pony only locks its legs tighter.  Its lips curl up further and further, like a mocking sneer.  Those steel grey eyes could make hell freeze over.

I’m faintly aware of someone laughing mercilessly from behind the pony’s fat ass.  Heat blossoms in my cheeks, and I pull harder against the dumbass’s bridle, using the movement to hide my face. 

 _Why, Jean_ , you might say, _you seem to be bad with animals.  So why are you working with stubborn ponies if you dislike them so much?_

Because I’m fucking broke , and I thought this would be an easy job.  It should've been easy, would've been easy.  West Trost Acres, a place for rich kids to board their horses between shows, seemed like a perfect snag.  

Looking into the eyes of the Devil here, I realize how wrong I was. 

“Oh, no!” Krista giggles from somewhere down the long stable hallways.  The blush in my cheeks grows brighter as I see her maneuver around the pony’s fat ass, appearing at my shoulder.  “I had my suspicions when they put you in Stable Maria…  They did this to me, too, on my first day.”

I grunt and slacken the reins on the Devil Pony.  “What?” I ask, my voice more of a wheeze.  Clearing my throat, I say again, “What do you mean?  Is this some newbie prank?”

Krista smiles apologetically, taking Devil Pony by the bit and stroking his nose. The demon whickers, flicking its ears curiously towards her voice.  “Somewhat, yeah.  It’s more of a test.  If you can figure out how to get the famous Rivaille out into the pasture, the other stablehands respect you a lot more than if you ask for help.  I’m not on stablehand duty, so I do not count.”

“So this fucker’s name is Rivaille?”  I glare vehemently at the shithead.  “Well, fuck you, Rivaille.”

The pony tosses his mane, as if to say,  _Fuck you too, Jean_.

Krista laughs, her baby blue eyes shining like pools.  “We call him Levi around here, because, you know, show names are different from –“

“I know,” I interrupt, trying – and failing – not to sound rude.  Jesus, these people are snobby, acting like I've never seen a horse movie in my life.  “Levi, then, eh?  A fucker by any other name is just as shitty.”

“He’s always this stubborn, unfortunately,” Krista says with a sigh.  “He has this issue with control – the only people I’ve seen to ever boss him around is a big horse from the Stable Rose, and Hanji, too.” 

“Hanji? Is she a stablehand or a client?" 

“Oh, God.”  Krista bites her lip to stifle a giggle.  “She’s the veterinarian here at Trost.  Once you meet her, you’ll remember – she’s a bit hard to forget.”  Rubbing Levi’s nose, she plants a kiss over his eye, causing the tiny horse to grumble.  “I bet you haven’t forgotten her, have you, Grumpy?”

I scowl at the horse as he swings his head away from Krista’s caresses.  “So, what’s this asshole’s secret?  How the hell am I supposed to get him out of Maria?”

“He’s headstrong and stubborn,” Krista says, grinning at the pony even as he bares his teeth at her.  “I haven’t quite mastered it myself, but you can’t lead him.  That said, don’t let him lead you, either.  Just walk by his shoulder, and let him walk for himself.  Here, let me show you.” 

Feeling slightly overwhelmed, I allow her to take the reins from me.  Expertly, she clucks her tongue, gently pushing up on the Devil Pony’s laugh and nudging him forward.  Dismay claims me as I watch him follow her with only a small rumble of annoyance. 

It's been so long since I've worked with actual horses.  Now, even a Shetland – excuse me, Shitland – pony named Levi has me touchy.  I don't even know if... if I can do this.

“Dammit, Krista,” I growl, raking a hand through my hair.  “You know, this is really not my kinda job.”

Surprised, she halts the pony with another cluck of her tongue.  Her soft gaze seems to envelope me in this fuzzy sort of warmth, only becoming more appealing as a lock of her golden hair falls into her face.  Shit, this chick’s pretty – fuck the fact that she’s not into dicks to hell.  I curse the blush that spreads to my cheeks. 

“Why not?” she asks innocently, frowning.  “I mean, I know you haven’t been around horses since you were small, but – how much is there to forget?”

“A whole fucking lot,” I bark.  “Besides, it’s ten in the morning, and I’ve already mucked out three stalls of horse shit.  This is not a pleasant job to have.”

She eyes me skeptically.  “Jean, it pays really, really well for what it is.  With your record, I think you should be happy you’re not out on the streets or dealing drugs for cash.  Give it a day?”

I shift uncomfortably.  “Fine.  A day.  Teach me how to get this hell-horse out of this place, I’ve been smelling shit so long I think it’s beginning to affect me.”

As Krista patiently teaches me how to deal with Satan’s four-legged incarnation, I let my mind wander a little bit.  Honestly, she’s right when she says that it’s a lucky job to get.  West Trost Acres is a really ritzy place to be – I’ve even got a uniform I’ve got to wear when there are social gatherings in the House on the Hill, or if I go to a competition with anybody.  The horses are well taken care of, and, until Levi, I hadn’t really had any problems with any of them, or any of the other staff. 

Initially, I’d been slightly bummed about being placed in Stable Maria, the pony pens.  It'd seemed like I'd gotten shafted on my first day.  Throughout my work, I’d spotted a few massive stallions bursting from the doors of Sina, shaking their manes and stomping at the ground, and had decided that… maybe this is best place for me right now.

Krista guides me out into the soft, sandy road leading to all the different corrals.  In each of the separate pens, something different seems to be happening – horses graze at leisure in one, another holds a group riding lesson, and in a third a woman I recognize as Rico Br-something-or-another training a yearling.  The pen I’m leading Asshole here to is empty aside from a few small hurdles. 

I revel at the fresh tang of the wind on my tongue.  Taking a deep breath of air that isn’t tainted by manure, I close my eyes for half a second.  Mountain wind always tastes and smells so good.  

It’s funny this place is just forty minutes out from Richmond, being as crisp and relatively remote as it is; I guess that’s the fun part about being in a state as weird as Virginia.  One second, you’re in the middle of a sprawling, hipster city, the next, you’re nestled up in the mountains somewhere with all the religious hicks.

It’s a good thing that the pay is so good here, though; I might not be willing to make a forty-minute commute every day if it wasn’t.

Krista swings open the dazzlingly white fence to the pony corral and then shoves the reins into my hands, jarring me from my reverie.  She grins beatifically at me, patting Levi on the shoulder as she does. 

“Earth to Jean,” she laughs.  “Come in, Jean.”

I blink a few times, returning her smile dryly.  “Alright, alright, you’ve got my attention.  So, do I leave Shithead here, or do I have to wait until his exerciser arrives?”

“You have to wait for Petra.”  Krista shrugs.  “It won’t be that long, I’m sure.  Meanwhile, just let Levi graze at the grass poking out around the fence-posts.  I’ve got to go saddle up my horse, so I guess I’ll see you around, then.”

“Wait, Krista…” I start forward, holding out a hand to stop her.  She seems anxious to start riding, so I feel a little guilty holding her up even more, but I’ve got one more thing to ask.  “Who’s best to talk with?  I mean… who’s who, you know?”

I’m sure I could find out myself with enough time, but like hell do I want to just have smooth sailing on social waters.  I have enough problems with fucking Jaeger.

She smiles in understanding, nodding thoughtfully.  “Well… Ymir, the one that was laughing at you in the stable, is one of the only other stablehands around right now.  She’s… a bit blunt, but she’s nice once you get to know her.  You haven’t made the best impression, but you’ll get along fine.  You’re very similar.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”  Her smile becomes shy.  “You’re both kind of assholes at first, but underneath, you’re both actually nice.  Um.  No offense.”

I wave a hand.  “Honestly, Krista, I’m not bashful about this stuff.  I am a  _major_ fucking asshole.  Anyone else?”

“Um, not really.”  Krista cocks her head to one side.  “There’s Petra, but she was the one that did your job interview, so you already know her.  She's a sweetheart, bless her.  Reiner shows up here a lot, he’s got a horse in the Stable Sina – he’s very, very big, but he’s… nice, I guess.  A BFG.  Don’t get in the way of his horse.  Um.  You know Rico.  And, uh, you know Pixis, don’t you?”

“No.”

“Oh.  He’s in charge of the riding lessons for people that don’t have horses of their own.”  She points over to the pen, gesturing towards a shiny bald head.  “I’m trying to think – Auruo is a pleasant enough guy, he’s crushing hard on Petra, so you’ll probably see him out and about today.  Ignore him.  Thomas Wagner, too – he’s cool, he’ll be sharing Fridays with you as the exerciser.  Mina will be that day's other stablehand.  I haven’t actually met her.  Also, Annie.  Annie scares me – she jumps her horse every Wednesday, so you hopefully won’t run into her.  Oh, and Marco – how could I forget  _Marco?!_ ”

“Marco?” I repeat, arching an eyebrow.  It’s a bit of a weird name, but, hey, when your parents curse you with the name  _Jean_ , you can only be so judgmental. 

“Marco Bodt.”  She beams towards the House on the Hill, as if expecting him to appear there.  “He’s the nicest guy I’ve ever met.  Apparently, he’s been coming since he was, like, six.  This place is like a second home to him.  A year ago, West Trost Arces almost went bankrupt, but his family gave this massive donation and saved the place.”

“So, he’s a rich dweeb?” I summarize disapprovingly.

“Be nice,” she scolds, swatting at my arm.  “He doesn’t act rich.”  Her voice dips in volume.  “Look, I wasn’t going to tell anyone this, but he tipped me a lot every day I helped him with his horses on the condition that I would use it to get my own.  Butter up to him a bit, and he might be able to help with your financial problem.  Unless you want to spend your entire young adult life in Sasha and Connie’s apartment.”

“No, thank you.”  I shake my head hastily, shuddering at the thought.  “But buttering up isn’t my thing.  Or rich dweebs.”

Krista sighs over her shoulder as she edges out of the fence, the gear squealing as she swings it back into place.  “Look, Jean, try to be nice.  At least  _try_.  If it doesn’t work out, so be it, but you’ve got to give it your all.”

“Alright,” I grumble, glaring down Levi.  “Hey, Krista, thanks for landing me this job.  I’ll let you go to your horse now.”

“You’re welcome, Jean.”  Krista’s smile is broad.  “Just don’t blow it on the first day.  And be nice!”

 

* * *

 

To avoid blowing it on the first day, I avoid everyone. 

Some confrontations I can't weasel my way out of, like polite chats with Petra (I don’t do  _polite_ ) and a few half-assed greetings exchanged between me and the  _snobby rich girls_ in their lessons (I don’t do  _snobby rich girls_ , either).  But most of time, I have this us-and-them sort of barrier between the other staff and I. 

Ymir, too, teases me about Levi a few times, poking her head into the tack room when I return his gear to the peg on the wall.  We exchange a few insults, and I can’t help but like her company the most, even though she’s the least sociable person here aside from me.

 _Not that I’m that naturally unsociable_ , I reason as I escort the pony of one of the white girl snobs back to Stable Maria since she had to leave early.  It’s not like I’m shy or anything.  Actually, I’m really not – maybe I could do with a good dose of humility.  It’s just that I have this tendency to say whatever’s on my mind, good or bad, and a lot people don’t like my bluntness. 

A lot of people don’t like me. 

But that’s okay, because I kind of don’t like people, either.  I’ve learned that, because of the constant scowl my face seems to be contorted in, we have this pleasant way of avoiding each other, people and I.  I don’t mess in their business and they certainly keep their noses out of mine. 

Ymir pokes her head out of a stall, her curious brown eyes hardening into cruel amusement.  “Oi, Newb, good seeing you haven’t been trampled yet.”

“You too, shithead.”  I try to focus on guiding the horse behind me – it has this tendency of stepping on my heels, and I don’t want to fuck up completely in front of her.  “Where does this one go, eh?”

Ymir squints at the horse.  “Eh, is that Ellie’s?  This stall, actually.  Good thing I finished it when I did – I don’t wanna see that face of yours any longer than I have to.”

“Good to know the feeling is mutual.”

Despite both of our jibes, she waits for me to back the palomino back into its stall, then helps remove its bridle.  We don’t talk again, which is fine by me.  I’m not going to be the one to start a conversation. 

I wrinkle my nose as I peel the saddle blanket off its sweaty back – pressing my face into my shoulder, I cough, shaking my head. 

“You get used to the smell,” Ymir lilts without a cadence of pity.  “It begins to stick to you, actually.  Make sure you take a shower when you get back.”

I point towards my pant-leg in annoyance.  “I’m already going to wash everything I own.  This fucker” – I slap the pony’s withers, avoiding the sweaty stains on its back – “tripped me as I was walking him back here.  I went knee-first into a pile of shit someone had left in the way – glad I didn't put my hand in it.  All the schoolgirls were giggling like bitches.”

“I would’ve giggled, too.”  She takes the pony’s stuff and walks towards the Stable Maria tack room, looking over her shoulder at me.  “You wanna take a quick break, Newb?  The bitches are almost finished up with their lesson, meaning that we’re free to do whatever we want while they groom their horses.  We can probably watch Krista finish up.”

Nodding, I follow her to the tack room, pretending to ignore the way the smell of horse-perspiration grows even more potent in the air the closer we become.  “I haven’t seen Krista’s horse yet.  What does she ride?”

“Mmm, she has a chestnut Quarter Horse named... Diamond?  _Diamant_.”  Ymir grunts as she shoves the saddle up onto a peg I find it very difficult to believe that any of the schoolgirls would reach.  “It’s quite a walk to get to the Western corrals – when there’s lessons or other bigwigs, they force all Western riders off into some remote field so that they’re not seen.”

“I remember.”  Shaking my head, I scoff harshly.  “I can’t believe she’s so soft about this Marco dweeb – he’s the one forcing her to ride so far.”

Ymir turns and glares fierily at me, looking at me like I'd just spat on her grandma and then shot her through the chest.  “Whoa, dick, what do you have against Marco?  Have you ever even fucking met the guy?”

Startled, I shake my head, my asshole façade lowering a bit.  “Umm… no.  Wait, you actually fucking like him?  He sounds like a rich boy with a stick up his ass.”

“Where did you hear that?”  Ymir narrows her eyes, as if she’s ready to strangle whoever might’ve been spreading that particular rumor.  “The Bodts are a family of angels.  Rich, clueless angels, but angels all the same.”

I stare blankly at her, astonished.  “I… um… how are you so sure?”

It’s her turn to look uncomfortable.  “Look, it’s a tough job to keep with a dirty tongue like mine.  Marco’s been very forgiving, and he’s convinced everyone else to be the same.”

“O-okay.” 

We don’t speak again until we’re already on the gravel road and heading towards the distant corral – the silence is somewhat deafening, with only our feet on the stones to mark our passage.  On my right, a great expanse of woods stretches, billowing up into the emerald and sapphire mountains in the distance, with only the occasional riding trail riddling into the trees.  On my left, an eerily green pasture awaits, with grass that can’t possibly be natural – it’s the pasture for the horses of  _extreme-ritz_.  The Stable Sina pasture. 

Despite its large size, there aren’t all that many horses in the big pasture.  There’s a few mares with foals staggering on spindly limbs trotting around, but other than that, the horses are mostly spread out and distant from one another.  I ask Ymir why there’s so much space, and she shrugs, looking eager to break the silence. 

“Most rich people are annoying.  They come out here from the city and drop their horses off, but then get pissed when they see that horses actually live in stalls, and not open, wide fields like they see in their movies.  They like seeing  _this_.  It’s one of the major selling points for this place.”

“The horses kind of waste the space, don’t they?” I remark.

“Well, we have entire apartments and houses to ourselves, but what tryhard ass wants to get out of bed?” Ymir counters.  “Oh –" Her voice deepens into an angry growl, and she lifts a hand to her face, shading her eyes. " _Dammit_.  There’s Krista with Diamant.  We must’ve missed her practicing.”

“Really?” I check my watch, and my doubt skyrockets.  “Shit.  Yeah, we missed her allotted time.  Fucking white bitches.”

“Fucking white bitches,” Ymir agrees, almost growling with irritation.  “I was looking forward to seeing her practice again, dammit.  She took my breath away last time.  Damn, that girl can ride.”

“Is she good?” I wonder, watching that little blonde head bob on the back of her flashy copper steed. 

“The only acceptable white girl,” Ymir responds with a glow of approval.  “Damn the others to hell.  I’m going to burn down Stable Maria and staple their little ponytails to the tack room bulletin."

"I'll grab the kerosene," I offer, grinning at her.

Ymir shakes her head, sighing wearily.  "It seems we can't actually do that, because of laws.  Fuck laws."  She shrugs helplessly.  "I can't help it if their dumbass pigtails provoke me to murder, especially if we've walked all this way."  She shades her eyes again, squinting.  "However, our noble trek might not have been completely in vain – look.  It’s Marco.  You can finally meet the dude, you prejudiced dickhead.”

“Where – oh.” 

Through the green pasture, a horse as black as sin darts, its legs pounding over the grass and its tail like a banner of ink behind it.  The black is almost like a steel arrow through the green.  It looks a little young to be riding as hard and as fast as that, I realize.  Almost seems like its bolting.  And, although the rider looks perfectly fine in the saddle at the moment, his posture flawless even in my amateur eyes, the stallion is moving too fast, too directly towards the fence.

I turn to Ymir.  “That horse…”

Her eyes widen with horror.  “Oh, shit, not again.”

She streaks across the yard, racing over the stones.  My heart jolts a little.  I sprint after her, worry consuming me for this little Bodt guy.  Each of my steps propels me faster over the gravel road, desperately trying to intercept the horse and the fence before it's too late.

A young, untrained horse is not something you should be riding.  I know that more than anybody. 

“Shit, man,  _jump!_ ” I yell at the rider as the horse streaks for the fence.  The sound of its hooves echo through the clearing.

Time seems to move in slow motion.  At first, I think the stallion's going to try and jump the five-foot wall separating it from the woods.  It certainly seems to have that rebellious mindset.  Instead, it casts back its head, throwing its rider forwards as it screeches into a halt. 

A shrill whinny pierces the air, and its eyes roll in its sockets.  The boy scrabbles to collect the reins, to balance himself.

I feel weightless with terror.  My foot snags on a rock, and I almost tumble to the ground.  I never tear my gaze away from the boy through it all. 

That black yearling rears up.  Its scream of anger grates against my eardrums.  Ebony hooves slice at the air.  The boy throws all his weight forward, hugging its neck to keep from being thrown onto the ground.  I stumble to a halt, frightened of spooking the beast further by approaching any more, and grab Ymir’s hand to get her to stop, too. 

A horse as black as coal, hurling its hooves to the sky, shrilling a cry of vengeance.  My courage trickles down through me and to the ground, growing more and more faint with each roll of its dark eyes.  If there’s a god in this world, I’m pretty sure he hates me. 

The horse’s legs slam back down on the ground, and it snorts angrily, pawing at the grass.  Its eyes still roll, and it gnashes its teeth against the bit, huffing furiously. 

Without wasting a moment, the boy leaps from the saddle and rolls beneath a convenient gap in the fence.  The horse chases him to the side, stamping its hooves like it's trying to kill a snake.  He's barely fast enough to escape the yearling.  It brays a threat after him, kicking once against the fence, before prancing off.  As it shakes its reins through the air and continues to whinny angrily, I return my attention to the dude that escaped.  

The boy tries lift himself from the ground, but collapses with shaking arms and legs, his exhausted gasps echoing in my ears. 

I don’t wait any longer.  My pulse revs back up to full-throttle.  Racing to the guy’s side, I drop down next to him a few feet before I should’ve, and end up ripping my jeans on the course gravel.  Ignoring that, I rest a hand on his back, feeling it shake beneath me, and give him a gentle squeeze. 

My breath shallows, not only in fear of the stallion bucking wildly behind a mere wooden fence, but for this poor joke of a rider that thought he could tame it.  His shaking grows greater as he flips himself on his back so that he’s staring up at the sky. 

I realize that his shaking is laughter. 

Serious laughter. 

Like, fucking tears are going down this guys face – tears of  _laughter_. 

“Marco!” Krista cries, vaulting off Diamant and throwing the horse’s reins over a fencepost.  “Oh, God, are you alright?”

“He’s just like his brother!” the boy croaks between giggles.  He clutches at his stomach, rolling back and forth slightly, and squints his eyes to stop the tears.  “Good Lord, that gets the blood pumping.  Oh, God, I’ve forgotten how much fun I’ve been missing out on!”

I look up at Ymir, who’s holding Diamant still for Krista, and mouth, “This is fucking Marco?!”

Grinning wolfishly, she nods. 

“Hey, bronco, got any life-threatening scrapes?” Ymir asks, shaking a finger at him.  “You know, you just gave a killer first impression to our latest stablehand.  And to think, he was doubting your depth in character…”

“Oh, mercy me,” Marco snorts, wiping his eyes.   _Mercy me?_  “I’m sorry, I am a mess, aren’t I?”  He grins up at me, a warm, chocolaty brown gaze peeking through freckled eyelids.  “Hi, I’m Marco.  I don’t usually ride wild horses and then laugh my tears out.  Usually, I'd sweep you off your feet with charm.  This... is just one of those days.”

“Right.”  I lift an eyebrow skeptically, realizing that this dork is perfectly fine.  My heartbeat slows to a pace that wouldn't upset my doctor.  “You know, you’ve got to take that more seriously.  You could’ve gotten seriously hurt.”

Seriously, seriously _hurt_.  So you need to seriously, seriously cut it out. 

Marco shrugs, his grin adopting a more thoughtful look about it.  “I’m sure I could’ve.  But I’m breaking him for my little sister – he’s going to be her birthday present.  I don’t want to risk sending her to the hospital.  Better me than her, right?”

“Jean’s got a point, Marco.”  Krista squeezes his arm gently.  “Your sister wouldn’t like to see you trampled by Franz, either, you know.”

“I know.”  Marco sighs, cracking his neck.  “Oh, wait, so you’re Jean?”  He pushes himself up, leaning on the palms of his hands – the sunlight hits his eyes, and they twinkle brightly like crystal chocolate.  “ _Joooohn._   That sounds French.  Isn’t it…”  He hesitates, and a wrinkle appears between his eyebrows.  “Isn’t it not pronounced like John?  More like…  _Jean?_ ”

I stare at him for a second, stunned.  “A horse just fucking threw you, and you’re talking about pronouncing my name.”

Ymir laughs and whispers, “That’s Marco.”

“Well, he didn’t really  _throw_ me – I jumped off,” Marco explains, grinning again.   “Besides, I want to get your name right the first time.  It just so happens that we met on a bad note; doesn't give me a right to be rude.”

Shaking my head, I whistle in awe.  “Yeah, man, it’s pronounced just like that.  Jean Kirschtein is the full name.  Hey, maybe you’d better rest for a bit, eh?”

Marco blinks up at me as if I'd slipped into a foreign language, long lashes batting against his freckled cheeks.  “Oh, okay, I’ll rest for a bit.  But I need to unsaddle Franz first.”

“Is Franz that one?”  I point towards the black horse that’s still parading in front of the fence, bellowing challenges at Marco. 

“Yes.”  His eyes glow with affection.  “Isn’t he beautiful?  I think my sister will love him.”

“Uh huh.”  I cock an eyebrow at him.  “Go sit down in the shade for a few moments.  Have something to drink.  Ymir will take care of Franz.  Won’t you, Ymir?”

“You do it yourself, pretty boy.”

“I’ll do it.”  Marco shoots to his feet in front of me.  I gape up at him, shocked by his recovery time.  “Besides, he knows me best, anyways.  Are you guys going back?”

I open my mouth to protest.  There’s no way I’m letting that guy back on that horse, if only to spare my own sanity.  I don’t want to see some rich kid that thinks he can do anything get his neck snapped on my very first day – the day that I’m supposed to  _not blow_. 

“Jean, let him go,” Krista instructs, nudging me with the toe of her boot.  “He’ll go crazy if he’s not doing something.”

Hesitating, I gnaw at my lip, rising up slowly to my feet.  Marco pauses by the fence, one hand braced against the wood beams, and turns to smile back at me.  I don’t think I’m any kind of expert on this sort of stuff, but that level of transformation, from racing from a killer horse’s hooves to smiling like it was a walk in the park, seems a bit bizarre to me. 

“I’m not going to ride Franz,” the boy explains, his voice taking on a softer note.  “I’m not that stupid.  If you want, you can come with me to make sure it’s alright.”

Dubiously, I watch Franz as he tosses his head towards Marco, stamping at the ground – I don’t want him to go into a pasture of potentially pissed horses, but I don’t want to go in myself, either.  Besides, it’s his own choice.  I shrug, giving up. 

“Fine, but don’t you come back and haunt my ass – I tried to save you.”

Marco giggles and waves a dismissing hand.  He turns away, climbing up the fence and roosting on the top beam – there he sits for a moment.  As Ymir boosts Krista back into Diamant’s saddle, I take a moment to drink the kid in. 

Freckles splatter his tanned face and down the back of his neck – his hands, too, have a faint dapple tracing all the way to his fingernails.  Most of the rest of him is covered in a flannel shirt and jeans.  The hair that sticks out from beneath his helmet is black, or maybe dark, dark brown, I can’t tell.  He could be older than me, he could be younger – Marco’s got a youthful sort of look in his eyes, but otherwise, we seem about the same age.  He's certainly taller than me, and a whole helluva lot more attractive.  

I wonder if he’s got some chronic disorder that causes him to smile all the time, because, damn, it feels like there’s one. 

Glancing once back at me, he cups his hands around his mouth, sucks in a great breath, and shouts his own name through the pasture.  My eyebrows shoot up.  I'm pretty sure everyone in the valley knows this dork's name now, but for the life of me, I can't figure out why.  

I scoff quietly, hiding my amusement behind Diamant’s body and rolling my eyes towards Ymir.

He calls again.  This time, Krista clucks her tongue before he's finished, nudging the horse’s barrel body into action.  Rumbling, Diamant begins to move.  I screw up my brow, turning to Ymir with a question in my eyes. 

“Aren’t we going to wait for Marco?”

Ymir chuckles, smirking condescendingly at me.  “I remember how confused I was when I first met Marco.  Hon, he’s been doing this since he was an ittle wittle freckle potato.  He trained his first horse at age twelve, and we still use her for kiddie lessons.  Marco’s got this.”

“Really?”  I stare at him as he shouts his own name over the pasture again ("Maaarcoooo!"), feeling the squirm of doubt in my stomach.  “Because I have a feeling we should be helping him find some of those lost marbles.”

Marco’s hands drop, and he turns, grinning at me.  “Yeah, I’ve been looking for those.  If you find them, please let me know.”

“You should see Horsin’ Around,” Krista bubbles from atop Diamant, leaving me behind in her leisurely trot.  “That’s one of his horses.  His favorite, actually.  He’s a beautiful 16.3 hands Trakehner – absolutely gorgeous, especially after Marco gives him a bath.”

“Until he rolls in the mud again,” Marco chuckles.  “Hey, I’ll see you guys back at the stables, alright?  Don’t ditch me with the rich white snobs like you did last time.”

I nearly choke, turning around to look back at him on his lonely fencepost.  “What did you just say?” I call back, delighting in this guy’s insults aimed at his own people, at himself. 

He shrugs – the sun sparkles from behind him, filtering through his dark hair (I decide that it’s definitely a brown) and glancing off his freckled cheeks.  “Just because I was born into a social class doesn't mean I have to like any part of it.  I look forward to getting to know you better, Jean.  Hopefully, I’ll convince you I’m not a – what was it that you said?  A rich dweeb.”

Mortification turns my stomach to lead at Marco's giggles.  I swear I'm going to strangle Krista's pretty little neck.  Waving curtly to Marco in farewell, I wheel around, wishing I could sink into the ground and die.  A blush burns in my cheeks.  Definitely not a good way to begin relations with one of the best clients around here.  I slap at Krista’s leg. 

“When did you tell him about that?  And... why?”

Krista shrugs.  “We were riding Western together for a while – he gave me some tips on how to get Dia here around tough bends in the obstacle course a bit better.  It’s okay, Jean, he took it well.  He died laughing when he heard it, actually.  I think he’s really going to try to prove you wrong.”

“Oh, God,” I mutter, rolling my eyes up to the sky.  “Why, Krista, why?  Good impressions are key! _I need money that he can provide_.”

“There’s Marco’s horse,” Ymir breaks in, “if anybody’s interested. Because through Horsin' Around is the quickest way to his heart.”

Immediately, I swivel around, looking for his horse.  

Over the hill of the pasture canters a magnificent bay that’s either got a slight dapple or is covered in dirt, I can’t decide which.  Probably a bit of both.  Though I’m not familiar with the breed – hell, I only know Thoroughbred and Quarter Horse – it seems like a really ritzy horse to own, with a long, flowy black mane and stockings that are probably quite eye-catching when not splattered up to mid-hock with mud.  Its ears are intelligently perked towards Marco. 

“That’s Marco’s favorite horse,” Krista explains warmly.  “He’s raised it since it was a foal.  He’s got one other, Franz’s brother – we call him Batman, I don’t know where he is, though.  Horsin' Around's name is Polo.”

“Polo,” I repeat.  

Marco slaps his lap invitingly and laughs jovially as the horse draws closer, his freckled face the very epitome of delight.  The boy chants, “Marco, Marco, Marco!”  With each call, the horse tosses its head, as if saying,  _I’m coming, I’m coming, Jesus, you needy asshole._

Marco, Polo. 

I got that, you punny, freckled bastard. 

I fucking got that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Jean and Marco and horses. Wow. So original. Just bear with me, guys -- hopefully, I can prove my worth to the internet. We can always hope, can't we?
> 
> Can't we?
> 
> Constructive criticism is welcomed, especially on the characters. Please, tell me if I've got a typo or something else; I'd rather know about it and fix it than have it be glaring to future readers. If you like this... click that Kudos button, please, please. And comment...?
> 
> I'm a little fish in a big sea!
> 
> Adios!


	2. Freckles and Flower Necklaces

Groaning, I slump against the wall, kicking the door shut behind me.  Slamming my keys down onto the hallway table, I stumble wearily into the living room, blinking the sleep from my eyes.  Everything aches like I’d just spent the day at the gym.  

The snug, white-walled apartment greets me warmly, the grinning pictures of Sasha and Connie I’d taken staring at me from the wall.  I breathe out slowly, relishing the smell of Sasha’s less-than-perfect cooking and Connie’s dirty socks.  It’s not the best apartment in the world, but it’s an apartment, and it’s got a lived-in feeling I love more than anything.

Sasha and Connie are curled up together on the couch – tonight, they’re watching some laughably bad reality television.  I remember them talking about it all week.  They don’t seem happy to be interrupted from some drama queen’s rant about her social life as they turn to me.

“Oh, you’re back,” Sasha says.

I roll my eyes.  “No dip, Sherlock.  Look, I’ve got to run a load of –”

“Holy shit, you smell like shit,” Connie coughs, burying his head in Sasha’s hair.  “Even _she_ smells better!  Come no closer!”

“What –”  Sasha collapses into a fit of hacking, and dives beneath the one throw blanket in the apartment, covering her face.  Muffled, she shouts, “Dude, dude, dude, get the hell out of here if you’re going to smell like that.  Escort that stinky ass of yours to the shower and _don’t come out_.”

Grouchier than usual with my fatigue, I resist the urge to yank the blanket off of her head and slap her.  That might get me kicked out, though, and I’m not sleeping on a park bench again.  Instead, I huff indignantly, glaring down at Connie.  

“It’s mostly my clothes,” I grumble, crossing my arms over my chest.  “I left my boots in my car so they wouldn’t stink up the place, so be thankful for that.  Do you guys have anything else you need me to wash?”

“Hell no,” Sasha squeaks.  

“Yeah, you get a solo wash for those.”  With watering eyes, Connie glances up at me.  “I’m not putting any of my stuff with those…  Ugh.  Jesus, did you go diving through shit?”

I sigh heavily, rubbing one eye with the back of my hand.  “No, dickhole.  And I’m not going to waste an entire wash’s water on these clothes.  Don’t you know anything about conservation?”

“He’s got a point.”  Sasha sticks her head out from the blanket for a second, peeking between her bangs.  “ _Jeeaaan_ , don’t waste our water.  Go downstairs to the laundromat and pay for your own washing machine.  Don’t keep these clothes around here any longer.   _Begone!_ ”  Like a hermit crab returning to its shell, she covers herself again.  “Shoo!  Shoo!”

Petty annoyance turns to serious irritation.  Grumpily, I turn my back on them, trying to keep from scowling as best as I can.  “The washing machines are, like, a dollar per wash down there.  And that’s if I don’t use their dryers.  I’m not going to spend a dollar a day because of these clothes.”

“Then don’t get horse shit all over them.”

I stare daggers at Connie.  “Thank you very fucking much for your sage words of wisdom.  You’ve probably never even touched a horse before.  Look, I’ll tie it up in a garbage bag or something, and wash it with the rest of my stuff at the end of the week.  Will that be –”

“No,” Sasha says, shaking her head curtly.  “It won’t.  Sorry, but I’m not having garbage bags full of shit-clothes in my apartment, especially if you’re going to be gone all day.”

I can’t really argue with that; I won’t be the one dealing with the clothes if they start to smell.  

“Maybe you can stuff them in your trunk,” Connie suggests.  “We’ll supply the trashbags.  Just get your smelly ass and your smelly-ass clothes out of here.”

“I can’t do that.”  Miserably, I shove my hands into my pockets.  “All my cameras are in there.  I’m not smearing the lenses with horse shit.”  Sighing, I push a lock of hair out of my face, and glare out the window – it’s not really the sunset’s fault, so I’m not especially sure why I’m directing my rage towards the blaring orange light, but at least it’s neither of my hosts.  “I’ll figure something out.  Right now, can I have a trash bag and hop in the shower?”

Under the blanket, Sasha moves with what I think is a nod.  “Grab me the Febreeze and you’ve got yourself a deal, Jean-Jean.”

 

* * *

 

I feel like the shit I’m scooping the next day.  

My muscles haven’t yet adjusted or even calmed down from yesterday’s work.  Aches pool in each and every part of my body, and I throb with every move I make.  I have a strange, carnal lust for a Tylenol.  Dammit, this is what I get for going from McDonald’s jobs to shoveling straw and wrestling with that pint-sized Devil Pony for a living.  

The only perk in my day is probably watching the jumpers in the distance through the windows in the back of the ponies’ stalls.  It’s dull entertainment, but, in a dreary midday stupor, I can’t find anything better to do.  

Initially, a stocky blond man with a coppery pinto steed had driven his horse mercilessly over jump after jump.  I’d felt a bit bad for the horse because it kept hitting its legs against the poles.  It didn’t seem much like a jumping breed, much more brawny and broad than the usual slender choices.  The man was stubborn, though, and he kept the horse going until it was exhausted.  

Marco took the floor next.  

Now, I’m not saying I’ve seen a fuckton of riders in my time, but Marco… the dude has a talent, clear as day.  Every now and then, I just stop, and watch him fly around the course.  It’s not something cheesy, like he and his horse seem to work on the same wavelength.  No, he’s got just as many problems in his routine as any rider.  

However, Marco just looks… _natural_ on the saddle.  Transitioning fluidly from gait to gait, he keeps his posture _still_ , but not _stiff_.  The horse takes his guidance in stride, responding to his every light tap and touch, and, even though they have a few slipups, the animal seems to listen to Marco.  Not once does the crop resting upon Polo’s shoulder do anything but tap him into attention.  

I pause for a moment, leaning on the broom, and watch as Marco aligns the horse with a jump.  What would be a sharp, uncomfortable turn for any other rider is made simple by his gentle lead.  A small smile tugs at the corners of my lips as horse and rider sail over the jump together, both of their forms perfect in every way, shape, or form.  

I’ll have to ask Ymir if he’s training for any competition.  Wonder how many blue ribbons Polo has tacked up by his door – I’m willing to wager there’s a lot.  

A blush heats my cheeks, and I glance back down at the stable corridor, hurriedly sweeping the sawdust into a nice, even blanket over the dirt.  God, I hope no one walks in and sees me gawking at Marco.  I’ll have to ask Rico if I can bring my iPod with my next time.  Sitting here and watching horses jump really blows.  

Watching Marco jump… is kinda cool.  

But I shouldn’t be standing around, staring, either.  Not only is it more-than-slightly creepy, but I’ve got work to do.  Levi’s glaring grey eyes seem to remind me that I’ve yet to muck out his stall.  I scowl at him and stick out my tongue as I pass, reminding the pony just how much I despise him.  He returns my greeting, snorting and stomping a single foot on the ground, lifting his head as high as he can.

Levi’s stall marks the halfway point through all of Stable Maria.  After I finish sweeping the rest of it, I’ve got to polish the saddles of a third of the ponies in the tack room.  After a short break to allow for the spoiled rich kids to have their fun in the stables, I’ll do the other two-thirds in the afternoon.  If I finish with that, I can start disinfecting bits.  

It’s not a very appetizing remainder of the day.  

Without Marco’s teamwork with Polo to distract me from my work, I find my mind wandering back home, back to school.  Tomorrow, I’m really going to have to be racing up and down Richmond to search for unique shots, because I’m such a fucking procrastinator.  My photography class is requiring a whole helluva lot of focus pictures by Saturday; tomorrow, Wednesday, is the only day I have off, and that’s for my other necessary classes.  The other evenings will be used primarily for editing, I’d bet, and not for an extra shot.  In between classes, I’m probably going to be a fucking maniac in Cary Town.  

What even is there to take a picture of in Richmond?  I’m really going to need the extra credit my professor offers if you take a shot of something he’s never seen before.  I gnaw at my lip, thinking hard.  

Maybe I could prop one of those cheap, plastic windup toys against the sunlight so that all the gears would be visible.  The lens flares off the shell would be cool.  But do they even sell those anymore?  Probably not.  I’d have to pay a fortune to get one from an antique shop, I’d bet, and I’m not going to hand over precious cash for extra credit.  

Maybe I could get a few shots from Sasha’s apartment.  Maybe a crisp black-and-white of some domestic affection between the two.  Not all that original, but it’d work if I got the angle right.  Then again, they are Sasha and Connie – their version of a cutesy moment is beating one another to death in a non-playful pillow fight.  

Frustratedly, I slam the bristles of his broom into the sawdust, disturbing the evenness it’d had before.  

Maybe I could get a closeup of the broom.  Best shot?  No, probably not.  But original?  No one else would be stupid enough to take a close-up of this, so yeah.  

I continue to mull over this depressing subject all throughout my chores.  As I finish up the hallway, I wonder if maybe a soccer ball in a playground would be original, but then I remind myself that a photo like that was practically on every single elementary school textbook I owned.   That picture practically stalked me as I grew up.  

It’s easy to get lost in my thoughts as I scrub at Levi’s itty bitty horsey saddle.  A dog would hardly be original.  Of course, dogs are far too mainstream to impress my hipster teacher, but they’re easy to photograph and edit if you can get one to stand still long enough.  

I’m actually really warming up to the whole dog idea as I buzz through the saddle-polishing.  It isn’t until the crushing realization that _I don’t have a dog_ that my flying spirits spiral and burn.  The only person I know that owns a pooch is Jaeger, and like hell I’m going over to his place to take pictures of grumpy old Hunter.  

Dammit, my grades can’t suffer through another F.  

My irritation levels only ride higher and higher.  By the time break arrives, I’m just about ready to strangle my professor and his stupid project.  I hate my anger, too, because I was looking forward to break – I wanted to explore a little along the paths by the woods, see if there’s any secrets hidden back there for riders-only.  Now, I think I’d just bore myself to death.  

Shoving my hands into the pockets of my jeans, I drag my feet down the sandy road, scowling blackly at the snobby girls.  It sort of pisses me off that the only chance I’ll have at survival is to marry rich, because, honestly, I really, really hate rich people.  It’s not even an _I have my space, you have yours_ sort of hatred.  I despise everything they do, mindlessly, for the sake of despising it.

Is that necessarily a good thing?  No, not really.  But the little bitches should be taken down a notch.  If not by me, then who else?

My scowl deepens with my thoughts.  I kick at a rock, feeling incredibly cliché and incredibly crappy in the same moment.  

“You’re looking down in the dumps,” calls a friendly voice, scaring the hell out of me.  Marco grins apologetically, stifling a chuckle at my startled reaction to him.  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

I exhale slowly – of course, I happen upon the wealthiest kid of them all while thinking those vile thoughts, and he’s one of the few that I actually like.  The guilt in my heart really sucks, because Marco has no idea what I’d been thinking.  I grin half-heartedly, dragging my feet to meet him by the jumping pen.  

Marco’s comfortably splayed over the neat white-wood fence, resting one booted foot on the top and allowing the other to dangle down.  His helmet is placed on one of the fenceposts, leaving behind a mussed, fuzzy bedhead of that thick brown hair.  The lead to Polo’s halter is casually strung through one of his belt loops, freeing his freckled hands to do whatever they damn well please.  As it so happens, he’s making flower necklaces for his horse.   The budding clovers beneath him at the fence’s edge have been gathered in a little stack on his lap.  

“Are you…?”  I watch the horse shake its mane, successfully breaking two of the necklaces around his neck and sending them drifting slowly downwards.  “Marco, _what_ are you doing?”

He smiles bashfully, his fingers freezing over the stem of a clover.  “Uh.  Uh, sorry, this is weird, isn’t it?”  Laughing to himself more than me, Marco wraps the half-finished necklace around his horse’s halter.  “My bad, it’s a nervous habit I picked up from my sister.”

“Nervous habit?” I echo, lifting my eyebrows.  “What’s got you nervous?”

Marco shrugs indifferently, refocusing his attention onto his horse, picking at something on Polo’s dusky brown ear.  “Oh, it’s a lot of things.  Trust me, you don’t want to be bored by the details.  What’s up with you, hmm?  What merits _that_ big a frown around here?”

It’s my turn to shrug.  I lean against the fence beside him, gazing out at the riding lesson.  “Well, in a word: college.  I’m just having a bit of trouble balancing work with homework.”  

He stares at my in the corner of his eye, grinning incredulously.  “It’s only your second day.  It won’t take long for you to figure out how to figure it all out.  I hope you’ll get happier here.”

Awkwardly, I shift, secretly hoping the same thing.  “It’s not that bad, this place.  I can see how I’d learn to like it.  You seem to like it a lot – I saw you jumping with Polo.  How long have you been doing this?”

I flick my eyes up to Marco to see his response – the sun peeks through the clouds in that moment, its long shafts of light haloing Marco’s head in what would’ve been a perfect snapshot of him.  His head is bent, his eyes bashfully downcast, and his freckles are pulled upwards in a laughing smile.  The richer tone of his freckles and eyes really mix well with the yellow light.  I mentally damn the wasted opportunity as the sun sinks back behind the clouds and Marco begins to speak.  

“A long time, a really long time.”  He leans back on the fence, readjusting his position so that he’s facing parallel to me.  “Most guys around here only have a horse to get the attention of chicks.  It’s never been like that for me.  I’ve… I’ve loved this place ever since I was just a little Bodt.  It’s my home away from home.”

“Yeah, Krista said you’re always here.”  My stomach pangs in jealousy.  “I bet you never have to worry about washing your clothes, do you?”

“What?”

“Er, nothing.”  I lean back, gazing around Marco to study his horse with a keener eye than before in an effort to make small talk.  “Polo’s a really nice horse, Marco.  What’s he like to ride?”

A light appears in the boy’s brown eyes, and I sit there, slightly awed by their ability to sparkle like diamonds.  “Polo is the best horse ever.  You’re welcome to ride him anytime you like.  He’s a bit more finicky with strangers, doesn’t do four-pole jumps as well, but he’ll still be loyal enough to you.  Also, don’t whip him, he doesn’t like being whipped.”

I hold up my hands, cutting Marco off.  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, man, I don’t wanna ride him.”  I scrabble for an excuse, gaping at the air for a few moments as he studies me curiously.  There’s no way in hell I’m riding a horse, no matter how docile.  

“I just wanted to see if maybe I could take some photos of him,” I blurt out, grasping at straws.  “Like, for my project.  I have to get some pictures, and I thought he could be a cool model.”

An awkward silence hands between us for a moment more, as fragile as a sheet of glass – I feel like even breathing would shatter it, so I hold my breath, staring up into Marco’s sparkling brown eyes.  They churn with emotion, and his brow puckers.  

“You take photography class?”  Excitement saturates his tone, and he leans towards me eagerly.  “Like, in college?”

Surprised by his rapture, I nod slowly, trying to discern Marco’s sudden interest.  “Yeah.  I’m majoring in Photography and Film, actually.  Why’s it so important to you?”

Marco sighs, leaning back on the fence and beaming up towards the sky.  “Oh, Jean, you’re so lucky!  I wanted to take some classes with the arts!  Maybe… ah, never mind.  Do you go to VCU, then?  I hear they have a really good school for the arts…”

“I go to VCU, yeah.”  His words kindle my curiosity, but I don’t dare ask a thing in case he launches into a little rant.  “I’ve, uh, got this project that’s due on Saturday.  Tomorrow’s my only day off until then, and I need to get a bunch more snapshots.  Would you mind if I made a little portfolio of Polo pictures?”

Marco’s expression is so radiant it almost makes me want to flinch.  “A Polo Picture Portfolio?”

For a long time, I don’t say anything.  Beneath my suffering stare, my heart lifts just slightly from its dismal mood.  Damn, what a dork.  “…Yes, Marco.  A Polo Picture Portfolio.  Would that be okay with you?”

“Of course!”  Marco leans forward, propping his head up on his hands and smiling down at me.  His face is squished between his knuckles, making his freckled cheeks seem slightly pudgier, reminding me almost of a fat little puppy.  “When you’re done with your project, can I see – _oh my God_.”  

His face goes slack.

I glance at him, arching a brow.  “What?”

“It’s a Polo Picture Portfolio Project.”  A slow, delighted grin spreads over his squishy cheeks.  “Did you do this on purpose, Jean?”

“Jesus Christ.”  I rub the palm of my hand into one of my eyes, chuckling quietly and shaking my head.  “You’re a big dork, you know that, Marco?”

“I’ve been told, yeah,” he laughs apologizingly.  “So, like, when do you want to take the photos?  Do you have your camera with you right now?”

The overcast sky forbids today as a good time for a photo-shoot – besides, though the flowers circling Polo’s ears in an infinity loop would be cool for a few pics, they’re both sweaty and tired.  As much as I find Marco’s bed-hair to be cute, it doesn’t make for a good photo to turn in.  

“I do have my equipment, but I get a feeling Polo’s coat can be a little more glossy.  Actually, he seems a bit dusty.  Are you washing him again soon?”  

“Oh, yeah.”  Marco stares at his horse sheepishly.  “He likes rolling around in the dirt.  Don’t you, Polo?”  

As he fondles his horse’s ears, I decide to take my chances and figure out just how dirty this thing is.  A coil of fear tightens in my stomach.  I convince my chicken brain that it’s going to seem weird if I’m awkward around a horse since I’m a stablehand.  Boring as this job is, I can’t afford to lose it, so I steel myself and refuse to look into his eyes.  Avoiding Polo’s mouth, my hand snakes carefully around Marco and pat the horse’s neck firmly.  

I retract a little quicker than I should from the horse.  Covering it up, I nod towards the dust that puffs from the fur and meet Marco’s gaze, smirking at him.  He blushes shamelessly, which makes his squished cheeks even cuter, and his shoulders go slack with submission.  

“Thursday.”  One of Marco’s hands goes to massage his horse’s cheeks, leaving only half his face smushed up.  “We’re washing all the horses in Stable Sina that day, though.  We start at noon and finish around five – will the lighting be okay then?  At five?”

I shrug.  “Only one way to find out.  Polo’s going to be a star in my VCU project, though, so… it’s either going to look good or it’s not.”

Marco beams at me, shimmying off the fence and landing with a small grunt at my side.  He awkwardly rakes a hand through his hair and tries to calm the frizzy mess caused by his helmet.  Sighing contentedly, Marco unlatches the gate and guides the horse from the pen, clucking his tongue quietly to beckon Polo forward.  

“I’ll meet you back here in fifteen minutes, okay, Jean?” Marco calls over his shoulder as he leads Polo back to the stable.  “I wanna talk some more about VCU, okay?”

“Alright.”  I flick my fingers in a mocking salute.  “See you in a bit, dork.  Don’t drown in Polo’s waterbucket.”

Marco throws a smile over his shoulder.  “You know, you really shouldn’t call any of the other riders ‘dorks’, Jean.  It’s bad for business.”

“Won’t call _them_ dorks.”  I pick at a flower necklace he’d left behind, plucking petal after petal off the clover bud.  “ _You’re_ just special.”

Marco’s face is hidden from me, but I can hear his laughter echoing around the stables.  My mind’s eye can easily conjure up the flash of white teeth and freckled cheeks pulled back in a big grin.  It’s hard to forget his cheerful brown eyes, too.  

Chuckling to myself, I lean back against the fence, considerably happier than I’d been before.  I watch the little girls trot in circles and muse about the transformation from grumpy to not-that-grumpy.  Of course, this happiness isn’t necessarily connected to Marco – actually, it’s probably stemming more from his horse.  

Are horse pics necessarily the most original things in the world?

No, they are not.  

But if I can get a good shot, I’ll probably be set for his class.  Not many people have access to horse farms.  Besides, Polo really is a good specimen, with dark fur the color of Marco’s eyes and silky black hair on top of that, plus the faint patterns of pale dapples along his ribs and hindquarters.  If I’m careful with the pictures I take, maybe I can even get a few with Marco in them, since seeing the two together is really like the icing on the cake.  

People like seeing symmetry between a pet and an owner.  I learned that in a middle school photography club, but I never thought it’d actually come in handy.

It takes Marco less than his allotted fifteen minutes to return (not that I’d really mind if it did – I’ve been amusing myself by pulling apart his necklaces).  Someone must’ve helped him with his hair, because now, it’s groomed and relatively tidy.  

 _He’s not that bad looking a guy_ , I realize as he walks towards me, crowned in the mists of late March.  The mists don’t compliment his complexion like warm sunlight might, but they don’t do anything to harm it, either, which is unusual.  If any chick could get past his dorkiness, I imagine he’d be _quite_ a good catch.  

Not that I’m fishing.  I just noticed is all.  

As he closes the distance with a jog, throwing up some dust, I wonder if he ever stops smiling.  

“Hey, sorry, but I’m going to have to help Ymir with getting the horses in from the Sina pasture,” he apologizes, shrugging.  “Lately, we’ve been having some problem with Amor, one of the old bachelors that hardly ever get out to stretch their legs.  He’s not the friendliest of geldings.  I suppose we could reschedule this chat – or, if you want,” he adds, face lighting up like a Christmas tree, “you could help.  We could talk _while_ we help Ymir out.  Do you have anything to do?”

“No.”  I wish I did.  “Are you sure it’s okay for me to help you out, though?”  Please say it’s not.   

“Why wouldn’t it be?”  Marco stares at me for a few moments longer than usual, the sparkle in his eyes keener than usual.  “If you don’t want to, you can just hang here, Jean.  No one’s forcing you to do anything you don’t want to.”

I shrug off his words, squaring my shoulders and pulling an indifferent mask.  “It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.  What do you want to know about VCU?  Do you go to a university, or do you get a free pass to your daddy’s business?”

Marco’s smile falters, and I get the sense he knows I’m trying to change the subject.  “No, no, I – no.  I’m not getting any help from my father.  I go to UVA, actually, which is more or less your enemy, right?  No hard feelings, I’m not all that into sports.”

I stare at him, bewildered.  “Are you even real?”

Melodramatically, Marco lifts a hand, waving it over his own arm a few times before pinching himself.  “Seems so.  Sorry to disappoint.”

Somehow, that provokes a laugh from me.  “Marco, you’re a strange dude.  So, if you’re not into sports, what are you into?”

“Horses.”

Again, I release a short peal of laughter.  “Somehow, I gathered that.”

Marco shrugs, obviously trying to play off the furious blush clouding alongside his freckles.  “What can I say?  I’m an easily readable guy.”

I almost get the urge to tousle his hair like he’s a dog, or some other little furry friend.  “I suppose we’re both just transparent, Marco.”

“Mmm…”  He gives me a once-over in the corner of his eye.  “No, I don’t think so, Jean.  I’m still trying to figure you out.  Maybe you should try adjusting your appearance to make yourself look a little bit more like you.  A complete makeover is what I have in mind, my friend.”

“Why?”  I flick at my ear lobe.  “Piercings not working for you?”

He grins beatifically at me.  “Mmmm, no, not at all.  I’m thinking: _flower necklaces._  I know a guy if you’re interested.”

Something about the combination of nice brown eyes and freckles breaks down my barriers; I toss my head back with laughter, unable to stop Marco from growing on me.  “You’re purposefully trying to damage my sex appeal,” I accuse, clubbing a finger at him.  

“Well, I can’t have you around stealing the spotlight.”  Marco lifts his nose up in the air and stares at me with eyes half-lidded.  “I’m used to being the big man on campus, but now I’ve got a competitor.  My freckles are feeling threatened by your hair.”

“They should.”  I rake a hand through my hair, smirking up at him.  “Two-tone is rare and beautiful.  Anybody with the right genes can have freckles.”

“True, but you’ve got to pay the big bucks to have goddess legs like these,” Marco remarks, marching proudly for a few steps and kicking out with his foot.  “There’s nothing sexy like a pair of long legs.”

I almost say that I can think of one long thing that’d be sexier, but I bite my tongue and swallow down the words.  That’d definitely not be the thing to say to sweet little Marco.  Losing my thunder, I stutter instead, “B-but you’ll lose any get points docked off if you can’t control your hair.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?”  Self-consciously, Marco paws at it, looking anxious.  “I mean, obviously, it’s not a majestic, two-tone lion’s mane, but I think I can get a round of applause for it.”

“Ugh, it’s absolutely hideous,” I tease, waving my hand about flippantly.  “If I see anyone I know, I’m hiding in a bush so they don’t see me anywhere near that jungle.”

Marco swats at me, rolling his eyes.  “Ha, ha.  You had me worried, jerk.”

“Oi, you two.”  Ymir sticks her head out of the Stable Sina doors, scowling.  “Stop flirting and get in here to help me.  I can’t whistle.”

“We’re not –“ I stammer.  Marco cuts me off without a glance in my direction and calls, “Coming, Grouch!”

Beside me, he breaks into a long-legged jog, and I have no choice but to follow.  Ymir waits for us at the doorways, scowling deeper as we arrive, me a half-step behind him.  Her cold, dead eyes don’t have the slightest bit of inflection, even as Marco grins – considering his smile is sunnier than the state of California, I don’t understand how she can remain so stoic.  

“Freckles, go call in the horses at the gates,” she orders like a drill sergeant, not even bothering to say hello.  “Whistle on my mark.  Jean, you close the door to the tack room and then hold both A Grim Reminder’s and On That Day’s stall doors open for them, they refuse to shut right, those damn doors."

Marco pads comfortably down the corridor between the neat, roomy stalls.  As I slink down the same hallway like a rat in a courtroom, my eyes flicker around nervously.  Nothing seems unimportant - the contrast of crisp white paint on dark, forest green, the splintered frame to a horse's stall where it'd obviously been struck by a massive hoof, the broken bit on a tattered bridle mottled in teeth marks.  

"Marco, you ready?”

“Almost!”  He kicks aside the gates doors, clanging them loudly to attract a few nearby horses’ attention.  “Okay, yeah, good on this front.”

“Jean?”  

Nervously, I escort myself to the classy name plates and hold open the wooden doors, keeping them in place with the heel of my foot.  I try to ignore the hammering of my heart in my chest.  They’re just tall ponies.  Tall Devil Ponies.  They can’t – okay, no, scratch that, they won’t do anything to hurt me.  The horses are just interested in the nice buckets of food waiting for them in their stalls.  

Nonetheless, I merely nod towards Ymir, not trusting my voice, and flatten myself against the wall.  

“Do your thing, Marco.”

Marco puffs out his cheeks and does his thing.  

A two-note whistle echoes over the pasture.  

He sidesteps quickly into Polo’s stall immediately after sounding the alarm.  A thought briefly flickers through my mind – should I be getting out of the way, too?  Should I just let these horses figure out their own damn doors and duck into the tack room for safety?

Every muscle in my body goes rigid as the first enters.  

The whites of its eyes show as it trots past with a jerky gait.  Polished hooves snap at the air then echo through the stable.  A flowing white tail streams behind it.  

I don’t have the time to catch my breath until a few more stream in through the door – more impatient snorts, feet pounding upon the ground.  I can feel myself paling, feel myself sweating, but I can’t stop it.  One horse that enters gets stuck in a traffic jam and throws back its head, whinnying angrily.  

It’s only Marco’s laughter that keeps me from pissing myself.  

“One at a time, guys!” he chuckles, swatting at the rear ends of those horses bustling past his stall.  “Oi, Tug, wait your turn.  Be nice, Hoover!  I’m watching you!”

Slowly, slowly, listening to the sound of Marco’s voice yet not allowing myself to comprehend what he’s saying, I force my muscles into relaxation – or at least, I loosen them up a bit.  Do my eyes still dart fearfully around?  Yes.  Do I still probably look like shit?  Probably, yeah.  But I’ve got to keep it together if I’m going to work here.  

Horses are horses.  They’re… horses.  Not all of them… not all of them will…

I refuse to let myself think about that right now.  

I inhale sharply as a grey horse prances high-spiritedly towards me.  She tosses her head and whickers threateningly at the horses around her, flicking her mane.  The blood drains from my face as she nips one’s withers and kicks at another’s leg on her journey over.  

Nearer and nearer the horse draws.  My knees begin to shake.  

She walks past with her ears back, one eye focused on me the entire time.  I don’t dare move a muscle, feeling his gaze on me.  Her eyes flick away, towards the food, and her ears swivel towards the appetizing bucket.  Puffing out a sigh of relief, I bow my head slightly.  

Suddenly, the horse’s head snaps up, her nostrils flaring.  A horse trots right in front of me, its shoulders nearly brushing my nose.  Bellowing a furious challenge, On That Day throws her head down and bucks out, slamming her hind-hooves into the other horse.  

My knees give out, and I sink to the ground, absolutely terrified.  

On That Day snorts triumphantly as the other stallion stumbles backwards, upsetting another horse.  I croak out a small noise of fear as they stamp their hooves, throwing up woodchips now at my eye level.  I shiver wildly, praying to some God up above that those hooves don’t get any closer.  

I nearly pass out as the second horse stampedes past me – holy shit, A Grim Reminder is the biggest animal here.  Big, black eyes glare down at me skeptically, and its red lips perk over its yellow teeth.  Its ivory hooves slam down on the sawdust beside me.  I can’t help but think about what might happen to my hand if it gets pinned beneath one of those feet.  

His low, warning grumble makes me shiver.  I remember what Marco and Krista had said about Reiner’s horse, this horse – a mean one, unfriendly and unpleasant.  Thank God I don’t look as appetizing as those pellets in his food bucket.  

Meekly, I move my foot out of the way after he’s passed, allowing the stall door to swing shut behind him.  

All the tension leaves my body.  I nearly forget about the other horses still marching towards their food, going limp against the wall, and half-lid my eyes.  A relieved little laugh chokes from my throat.  Maybe… maybe… I can do this?  

Can I work here?  

Is it smart for me to mortally damage my heart for a good pay?

Or is that just my heart healing?  

A warm hand rests on my shoulder, jarring me from my thoughts.  A pair of sparkling brown eyes meet my gaze.  Marco.  Oh, fucking hell.  He’d probably seen all of that.  Swallowing with a dry throat, I open my mouth to say something, but – but – nothing comes out.  What should I say?

Marco extends a hand to me.  Ashamed, I take it, allowing him to lift me back up to my feet.  It’s not until I feel the soft skin on his hands that I realize just how sweaty my palms are.  Still, he holds it for a second longer than necessary, squeezing my fingers before releasing.  Concern shimmers in his brown eyes, but he doesn’t say anything.  I stare at the ground, shoving my hands in my pockets, scrambling for an excuse.  

“That’s the last of them,” Ymir calls from somewhere.  “Okay, you two can go back to doing whatever you were doing before.  Seriously, go away, I don’t want you in here.”

After a moment, Marco rips his gaze from me.  “Sure thing, Ymir.  Remember, get some sunlight from time to time, or else you’ll shrivel up like an old prune.”

“Bah!” Ymir scoffs.  “I’m tan enough for the two of us, Bodt, and you know it.  Get out.”

I turn to him, blushing madly.  “Marco, I – I can explain, it’s just –”

“You don’t have to,” he says simply.  The smile pulling at his lips is gentle, strangely forgiving.  “Daisy, or On That Day, can be terrifying.  Trust me, I know – I’ve got still got a bruise on my ribs from where she kicked me last month.  As soon as I saw her enter the stable, I realized no one had given you the memo, and wow, was I scared.  Clever thinking, getting small like that.  Where did you hear about Daisy?”

“Krista mentioned her.”  I don’t think he’s fully convinced that my reaction was because of _Daisy_ , but I might as well play along.  “Yeah, I kinda freaked out a bit there…”

Marco glances at me – yeah, he’s definitely not buying my excuse, especially now.  “It’s okay.  We all have our moments.  If you ever need someone to talk with you about it, Lord knows I don’t have anything better to do.”

My smile feels weak, even to me.  I’m not feeling this job at all.  “I’ll keep that in mind, Marco.  Listen, I’d better get back to work, okay?  See you around, and good luck with Polo.”

“Wait –“  He starts towards me, halfway extending an arm.  I pause, watching as he bites at his lip, glancing sheepishly up at me through his eyelashes.  His freckles blend into his blush.  Laughing in embarrassment, he rubs at his own arm, grinning dorkily.  

“If you don’t mind, I’ve still got a few questions about VCU.  You don’t mind, do you?  I mean, if you do, then that’s okay, but…”

“…Alright, Marco.  What do you want to know?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all those that left kudos on the last chapter! Do you guys get all these horse terms, or do you want me to put up a list of those?
> 
> Also, if you guys have any ideas for horse names, please post a comment -- as much as I try, I'm... not good with horse names.


	3. Sponges and Hose-Hitler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adowable Marco my baby

“Oh, God, Connie.”  I all but collapse on the seat beside him.  “I need a fucking drink.  Take me to the bar.  Get me wasted as hell.  _Then slit my throat_.”

Sasha rips her head up from her textbook, snarling like an animal at me.  Her eyes tremble in their sockets.  “You have gum.  _I can smell it in your gum-breath_.  Give it to me, _now_.  I have killed a man _for less_.”

“Take me to the bar first,” I whine, pressing my forehead against the course wood of the courtyard’s picnic table.  “I need alcohol.  I need to escape fucking Jaeger.  Then you can have all of my gum.  All of it.”

Hissing, Sasha leaps across the table and shakes Connie’s arm.  “We’re going.  We’re going now.  Let’s not waste any longer sitting here.”

“Yes, let’s,” argues Bertholt, screwing up his brow and shoving Sasha back down into the seat.  “You are already going to fail this test, Braus.  Springer, ass in the chair, you’re even worse off than her.  You two can go get wasted after all of this is cemented in your brain.” 

Sasha breathes heavily – she eyes me like a predator does prey, and, I gotta admit, it sort of creeps me out (she does that to people).  “But Jean has gum breath.  Are you asking me to ignore that?”

“Spit out your gum, Jean,” Bertholt instructs, glaring at me with eyes of murder.  “I will not have you disturbing my practice-students.  No gum is allowed in my practice-school.  Then maybe you can explain why you’re disrupting my practice-class.”

I roll my eyes and stuff the gum beneath the table, halfway convinced that’s the only way to keep Sasha from stealing my secondhand gum.  She still stares wistfully after it, sighing sadly and leaning into the palm of her hand. 

“Jean-Jean.”  She sticks her lip out in a pout.  “What’s the matter with you?  Give me your gum.”

“Someone told fucking Jaeger that I work at West Trost Acres.”  I rest my forehead on the table, crossing my arms over my head.  “And that I work with the fucking ponies.  _And then Jaeger told Mikasa_.”

“I thought you were over Mikasa, man,” Connie grunts, sounding annoyed.  “Dude, that shit was so high school.  Grow up.  You are a college kid now, and that shit is creepy.”

“He’s in denial,” Bertholt sighs knowingly, bowing his head over his book, looking like that condescending teacher he pretends to be.  “Poor Mikasa.  Just when she thought she was in the clear, you return to stalking her.  I almost feel bad for her.”

“Shut up, dick.”  I contemplate peeling the gum off the bottom of the table and throwing it at him.  “I’m more pissed about Jaeger.  Fuck him!  Fuck him and his stupid dog!”

“How did he even find out?” Connie wonders, staring up at the sky with an expression of intense concentration.  “Sasha, did you tell him?”

“No!” Sasha cries, gnashing her teeth together.  “What about you?  Were you the traitor?”

“I don’t trust either one of you,” I announce, glaring at the partners in crime suspiciously.  If only to intimidate them into providing me with answers, I crank up the angry-Jean-stare to its maximum power.  “You’ve never, ever been able to keep a secret, Connie.  Ever.  And Sasha, you have all the resources to find out that I work with ponies.”

Sasha snorts, biting her lip to contain laughter.  “No, you’re just stupid.  You work with _ponies?_ ”

“Yes… no… maybe.”

“Look, man,” Connie chuckles, “we want you at this job so you’ll get out of our apartment and we can fuck in peace again.  There’s no way that it would’ve been either of us doing anything to delay that money-earning process.”

“Yeah…”  I bite at my lip, disappointment taking the place of anger.  “I guess it wouldn’t make any sense.  Dammit, I’m going to strangle whoever told Jaeger.”

“Bertie, you’ve been very quiet.”  Sasha pokes his shoulder.  “Do you know, by any chance, who’s spilled the pony beans?”

Nervously, Bertholt glances up at me.  “Alright, before you strangle me, Jean, know that I had no idea this was a secret.”

I slam my hands down on the table, jaw dropping.  “You…?  How… how the flipping fuck do you know?”

Bertholt’s cheeks go beet red.  “I… I may or may not have a thing for one of West Trost’s clients, and he may or may not have a thing for me, too.  It just came up, alright?  If I’d known it was such a touchy secret, I wouldn’t have shared anything about it.”

I survey him as civilly as I can.  My temper boils beneath my calm surface.  “And did you not think that there would be a problem telling fucking Jaeger about this?”

Bertholt develops a sudden interest in his book.  “…Sorry.”

“Damn, man,” Connie whistles, grinning at me.  “You’ve got yourself in a shithole.  Ponies, Kirschtein, really?”

“We’re going to humiliate you, Jean,” Sasha giggles.  “Just as a little forewarning.”

I scowl blackly at her, wishing I could sew that toothy grin shut.  “I’m already getting enough from fucking Jaeger, shitheads.  Don’t need anything from you guys, you know.  Bertholt, stop shooting me those sad-eyes, I’m plotting your murder.”  Groaning, I bury my face in my hands.  “What else did you hear, Gossip Girl?”

“Um, not much.”  Bertholt chuckles sheepishly.  “Small talk is just a bit of a formality for Reiner.  I try to tutor him, I do, but –”  He clears his throat self-consciously. “He mentioned something about a cute new photographer-stablehand watching him jump from the pony stable.  When I found out it was you, I told him no-homo, and he said he was going to have to break the news to one of his friends.”

“Thank you for the no-homo, at least,” I grouch, glaring down at a gnarl on the table’s wooden surface.  “Ugh.  You’re fuckbuddies with one of my clients.  Do you know how awkward this is going to be when I see him again?”

A naughty smirk appears on Bertholt’s face, a complete contrast to the professionalism he keeps with him at all times.  “Ask him what else he’s been doing with his riding crop, and he’ll go red as a tomato.”

Sasha makes a noise of disgust.  “Dude, dude, dude, you are _our_  tutor.  We do not need to hear every bit of your sex-life with Jean’s boss.”

“Yeah,” Connie whines.  “Teach me how to science.”

Bertholt lifts a brow.  “You heard them, Jean.  They want to study, and that’s pretty rare in this group.  Off with you.  Good luck with Eren.”

“Fuck you,” I mumble, rolling my eyes.  Anger prickles at the back of my neck, but I don’t press the issue further.  At least now, I’ve got someone to channel my aggression towards, if only mentally.  My scowl is deeper than usual as I pull my beanie a little further over my ears and storm off. 

A few people stare at me – I can feel the malevolence in their gazes, feel their eyes boring into the back of my head.  One fucking time, I get drunk and serve everyone food spiced with ridiculously hot hot sauce.  _One time_.  Now the college fucking hates me, even those that don’t chow on cafeteria pizza.  I ignore them, loping out of the courtyard with burgeoning anger. 

It’s not enough to be hated on by Jaeger.  The whole goddamned college community knows my name, and most of them don’t relate it to good times. 

They all remember all the times that I’ve screwed up, so it’s a little difficult for me to look any of them in the eye. 

That time Kirschtein sent his sexting pictures to the professor instead of his project. 

That time Kirschtein staggered onto the stage jacked up on too much coffee and said the lines of Fernand Mondego from the Count of Monte Cristo while tap-dancing.

That time Kirschtein went to an entire day’s classes with nothing on but boxers and a beanie because Jaeger had stolen all of his clothes.

Oh, and who can forget, that time Kirschtein went to go work at a rich white girl pony farm?

I wonder if they know I can hear them talking about me.  Well, no, not really _hear_  them, but I can feel it.  The hairs on the back of my neck rise like a dog bristling in preparation for a fight as heads bow together and furtive glances are shot my direction.  I scowl at no one in particular, unable to identify any party to be more irritating than any of the others. 

Weirdly enough, I find myself looking forward to tomorrow, secluded on a horse farm.  At least I’ll be away from these bitches, acting like high-school drama queens. 

Well, there is Levi, but I can deal with that horse’s tiny ass. 

Plus, I think Krista is  working today instead of paying a visit to Diamant.  We can catch up, discuss the pros and cons of working in horse-shit – I hope she’s happy I managed to stay another day.  Honestly, I’m impressed with myself.  If I don’t get a backrub from her, I might just kill a bitch. 

And Marco…

Maybe I should bring him a comb so we can calm his hair down for those photos.

 

* * *

 

By the time my rusty old car pulls into the gravelly parking lot for employees, located in the back of the stables and invisible from the main entrance, I notice that the festivities are already under way. 

Ymir, Krista, and one other dude (that Reiner guy, I think) all are leading ponies out from Stable Maria.  Once the ponies are out, they’re tethered to the fence in a neighboring pasture, one fringed with overhanging oak trees and carpeted with surreally-green grass.  In one corner of the pasture, Marco’s bent over a few colorful plastic tubs, shaking soapy contents from a white bottle into the water to create a horse-shampoo concoction. 

I smile at him, watching as suds drift up from the buckets, landing in his hair.  Somehow, getting up earlier than the ghastly 6 o’clock I’m supposed to be here is very like Marco. 

He only lifts his head after hearing my approaching footsteps – until then, he crouches, frowning with a furrowed brow, over the tubs, either trickling water from the nozzle of the hose into the buckets or shaking shampoo gunk into them. 

“Hey, you need any help with that?” I ask, smirking down at him as a stray clump of bubbles lodges itself on one of his eyebrows. 

“Umm…”  Crossing his eyes slightly, Marco blows the bubble off, still frowning thoughtfully.  “I think I’ve got this.  You can help the others unload the horses if you want.  Or… yeah, go help the others.”  First glancing down to the sudsy buckets, then yanking his gaze back up to mine, he grins exuberantly.  “Also, hello, Jean, good morning!  How’s your day been so far?”

“There’s not been much of it to judge off of.”  I rake a hand through my hair, scowling at the thought of my grouchy drive over.  “Suppose I’m doing okay.  You?”

“I’d be doing a lot better if I could get the right measurements of this damned soapy water.”  Marco tosses the bottle somewhere over his shoulder and plunges both hands back into the bucket.  “I think I’ve almost got it.”

“Awesome.  Hey, holler at me if you need any help, I’m going to go get the last of the ponies.”

Distracted, Marco only nods a goodbye – the tip of his tongue peeks through his lips as he works, lavishing his upper lip.  With a roll of my eyes, I give him a mocking salute and duck into the stable. 

Krista waves at me as I pass, but doesn’t say anything – she looks like she still needs her daily fix of coffee, with a drowsy smile and a sleepy gaze.  Ymir scowls a hello (I’m beginning to realize that’s a normal greeting for her).  The other dude tips his head, icy blue eyes probing me licentiously.  I feel uncomfortable as I pass him in the corridor, weirdly anxious to hide my ass from him. 

It takes a lot longer than I’d expect for us all to get the ponies ready – throughout the entire thing, it’s awkward and quiet.  Just the sort of thing you'd expect at 6:30, honestly.  Krista and Ymir don’t speak a word.  Marco and the other dude (I’ve decided he is indeed Reiner)  chat mindlessly, but it’s stuff about an upcoming competition, and I don’t really want to pitch in on any conversation. 

Leaning against the Devil Pony and scratching him behind the ear, right under his sweaty halter, I wait for Marco to finish with his last damned bucket.  I hear him mumbling under his breath like a middle-schooler fumbling over curses for the first time: “Gosh dammit, why won’t you work?”  “Does Satan fu-flipping hate me?”  “Dang it, this isn’t worth it, dammit.”

“Careful, or I’m going to have to wash your innocent little mouth out with that soap,” I call over my shoulder to him after a stuttered shout of, “Sh-shit!”

I can feel his blush behind me, _hear_ the dorky smile in his apology. 

“Done!” Marco finally announces, beaming and jolting to his feet.  “Reiner, do you have the sponges?  Oh, and I call hose!”

“I think it’s totally unfair that you get the hose,” Reiner argues, crossing his muscled arms over his chest, glaring down at Marco intimidatingly – it’s funny in a scary sort of way, like a bodybuilder glaring down a model.  “You’ve been taking so long with the soap.  I think we should fight for it.”

Marco responds by cranking up the dial on the hose's nozzle and shooting a high-pressure jet of water into Reiner’s face.  “Any other objections?”

“You bastard!” Reiner splutters, flicking water off his fingers. 

In silence, Marco targets the blonde’s face again with the nozzle, grinning mischievously.  “It’s awfully damp still, Reiner.  I’d hate to leave you shivering in the breeze while you wait for your clothes to dry, but I will defend what is rightfully mine.”

Reiner huffs, rolling his eyes.  “Fine.  Bastard.”

“Control freak,” Marco counters.  “Now hand out the sponges.”

For the rest of the morning, Marco is a Nazi with the water hose.  Since the tube's long enough to stretch over towards the far side of the pasture and back, Marco takes his leisure filling up our buckets, washing the soap off horses, and spraying people on the backs of their heads if they start to slow down on the job.  There's no hurry for him. Why scurry back and forth?  He gets to spray us all with water anyway.

Actually, no, he sprays Reiner in the back of the head, and, once, Ymir, but Krista and I remain unscathed.

Good thing the freckled bastard knows not to mess with my hair.  Smugly, I rub my sponge along the bay Welsh Pony’s side, working the soap into sweaty saddle area.  _Marco knows better than to fuck with me_ , I think, maybe a little too-proud of being able to escape the water so far. 

I pick up my bucket and drag it over to the next horse after finishing up on the Welsh Pony.  With a scowl, I waltz up to Levi – the pony rumbles in recognition as well, his steely grey eyes trained upon me with a gaze steeped in hatred.  He glares furiously at me, folding his ears back and baring his teeth at the sponge. 

“You like to be cleaned,” I remind him, slopping some of the sudsy water onto his mane, perhaps a bit rougher than needed.  “You are a clean, clean pony.  Let me fucking clean your dirty-ass fur.”

“You finish up on Dixie, Jean?” Marco calls.  I turn to see him plodding towards me, grinning dopily, his eyes like warm cocoa.  “Need me to spray her –”  His eyes widen, and his lips twist into a frown.  “ _Bad Levi!_ ”

A powerful jet of water arches over my shoulder, sprinkling icy droplets over my shoulder.  Dropping the sponge upon the ground, I leap backwards, putting a safe distance between me and the water.  However, the hose’s wrath was not intended for me. 

I laugh a little cruelly, watching Levi get sprayed in the face.  Thank God Marco’d been there like an angel – dumbass Devil Pony was about to take a chunk out of my shoulder.  He whickers angrily and paws at the ground as the water glances off his cheek, his neck, his ears. 

“Don’t laugh at him!” Marco cries, sounding delighted.  I can’t move fast enough; his hands move, and the water follows. 

I yelp, ducking behind Levi as the jet of water slams against my neck.  He again whinnies in protest, tossing his head, but I don’t pay him much attention; he should be happy he’s just a barricade and not a ritual sacrifice.  Freezing cold droplets trickle down my back even after Marco moves the beam away, causing the fabric of my shirt to stick to my skin.  Peeking around Levi’s short little legs, I squint angrily at Marco, my lips pulled down in a deep scowl. 

“You freckled bastard,” I hiss, shaking my hair out.  “I will get you back for that.”

He shrugs, blushing.  “Well, you were making fun of Levi.  I had to stand up for him.  Sorry, Jean.”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it.”  I leap for the sponge, still scowling darkly, taking the opportunity to wash Levi’s relatively clean feet.  “Watch your ass, Freckles, I’m going to get you back.”

Marco sheepishly walks over, grinning at me apologetically.  Sliding a thumb over the jet of water to form a fan, he begins to wash the soap from the Welsh Pony’s back. 

“Sorry, Jean, really.”  I notice that he’s got a bunch of bubbles in his hair as he speaks.  “It’s just that, well – whoa, Krista.”  His attention wrenches somewhere other than me for the second time in less than five minutes, and I feel a slight pang of jealousy.  “Wow.  PDA, much?”

I scramble to my feet, shoving Levi backwards, still scowling.  “Wait, what did I miss?”

“I second that.”  Reiner glances around boredly, absolutely towering over the tiny pony he bathes.  “What commotion are you causing now, Ymir?”

“It actually wasn’t me,” Ymir announces, grinning broadly, her beady eyes alight with glee.  She wraps her arm around a red-faced Krista, pressing her lips to the girl’s temple and nosing at some bubbles caught in her hair.  “ _Krista_  here just pulled something sexy and caught my attention pretty well, though.”

My jaw drops open, and I nearly drop my sponge again.  Damn.  No wonder Ymir likes watching Krista ride horses.  She wants a ride herself.

“Wasn’t you, my ass,” Reiner scoffs.  “Even if you’re not responsible for making out, you’re going around seducing innocent girls.”

“Don’t listen to him, babe,” Ymir growls, glaring Reiner down.  “I’m gonna treat you right.  Gonna wrap you up in cuddles and sunshine if that’s what you want.”

“Krista?” I bark, eyes wide and an eyebrow arch. 

She looks like she wants to bury herself in the ground.  “I – sorry.  I have a type.”

“She’s got a thing for me,” Ymir gloats in a singsong voice, glaring nastily at Reiner.  “That’s all the proof you need, ain’t it, Reiner?  Okay, listen here, blondie.”  Ymir clutches Krista tight against her chest, pressing another sloppy kiss to Krista’s cheek.  “You, me, Reiner, Marco, and Jean are going drinking tonight.  We’re going downtown, to where you come from.  Reiner, you’re welcome to bring your fuckbuddy.”

“Who, Bert?”  Reiner snorts.  “He’ll have his nose in some book.”

Remembering the sparkle in Bertholt’s eyes, I laugh quietly.  “Shouldn’t be that hard to convince him to get out for once in his life.  He’d probably throw himself off a cliff for a bit more of your dick.”

Reiner regards me with a hair-raising grin.  “Yeah, yeah, he told me about you.  _Kirschtein_.  The sexy photographer.  Hey, if you ever wanna get it on with us, threesomes are twice the fun.”

Frowning like a disapproving father, Marco shoots water at his head.  “Stop being creepy and wash the pony.”

Though the mammoth of a man turns his back on us and returns to his work, I don’t miss Reiner drawling out, “Well, if that’s how you’re going to be, foursomes are always fun, too, Hodt Bodt.”

Marco sprays him with water again. 

That’s pretty much how the rest of our time at Stable Maria is spent – Reiner makes lewd comments about everyone’s dicks, Ymir drapes herself over Krista, and Krista viciously grinds their lips together whenever she thinks Marco’s not paying attention.  He always seems to be, though, and we’re all fucking drenched by the end of it.  Everyone, it seems, but him. 

Little Marco seems to think I’ve forgotten, I’ve forgiven.  I’m fucking dripping, so I’m not sure why he thinks anyone could forget.  Every time he blasts me with water, I only grow more and more determined to catch him by surprise.  At last, my chance arrives. 

“Hey, Marco!”  I wave him over, smiling as normally as I possibly can.  “Fill up my bucket, will you?  Just need to finish up with this little shit’s front legs, and then I’ll help load the horses up.”

“Sure thing!”  His eyes sparkle with innocence too pure for his own good, and his smile is so trusting it makes me slightly guilty.  “Say, Jean, I’m not sure if Ymir was being serious about her invitation tonight –“

“I was!” Ymir growls. 

“…Okay, so she was,” Marco concludes, rolling his eyes and grinning towards Krista.  “You think you’ll be able to go?”

I shrug, furtively keeping an eye on the level of water in the bucket.  “If I’ve got enough time to after work, then yeah.  I know a few bars we could hit up.”

“If you’re looking to get drunk,” Krista tacks on cheekily, “Jean is the boy to go to.  He can sniff out good alcohol like a bloodhound.  Can’t you, Junny-Bun?”

Marco giggles, his eyes lighting up.  “Junny-Bun?”

I jab my sponge at him.  “Don’t even think about it, Freckles.  Don’t think I won’t strangle you.”

Marco mimes shuddering in fear, blinking his doe-eyes in fright and making an O with his lips.  “Please, have mercy on little old me and my little old freckles, Junny-Bun.”

Okay, yeah, _no_ , that’s _not_ going to work.  The bucket looks fucking full enough to me.  Shooting him a wolfish grin, I lean down, heave it up, then pour the soapy contents all over the little freckled bastard’s dorky little freckled grin. 

The sound of water pouring from a plastic container has never been so satisfying.  I can’t help laughing as Marco’s brown hair turns black, flattening against the sides of his face.  Spluttering, gasping, he stumbles backwards, tripping on his own hose and tumbling into a pony. 

Reiner booms with laughter somewhere in the distance.  “Got what you deserved, you did!”

Pawing at his eyes with one hand, Marco wails with agony, his lips still pulled back in a wounded grin.  “Aghh!  Jean!  You’ve blinded me!”

He cranks the pressure up, blindly aims towards my chuckles, and strafes me with liquidized pain. 

Crying out with exaggerated agony, I dash off further into the pasture, the jet of water slapping my back as I go.  Marco howls about getting vengeance, staggering to his feet, still blind as a bat.  I turn around, grinning, and watch from a safe distance as it descends into a water-fight. 

Ymir takes Krista in her arms and dunks her into the bucket.  That little blond head disappears for a few seconds, before it surges out again in an arch of water.  Krista rises like the monster from the black lagoon and tackles the other girl, soapy sponges in hand. 

On the other end of the pasture, Reiner yanks the hose from Marco’s grip, leaving the poor freckled dude blinded and weaponless.  Scrambling for cover, Marco yells something about taking pity on the disabled. 

“I know no mercy!” Reiner booms, chasing after the freckled dork with the hose blazing. 

Now, normally, I’d have left Marco to Reiner for a case of death-by-garden-hose far before now, but it is sort of my fault for leaving him impaired and alone.  I really don’t want the death of a blind man on my hands. 

Yelling a Viking war cry, I lean down and scoop up a bucket of water as I dash to Marco’s rescue.  Reiner notices my approach a second to late.  I have enough time to send my war bomb – water, bucket, and all – flying towards him. 

Admittedly, I love the slap of the water against Reiner’s cheek, but his reaction to the bucket is just as good.  It bounces off his nose, leaving him bewildered.  Cursing, he fumbles with the hose, his scowl holding the promise of revenge.  I tug Marco to his feet and get him running towards the rest of the water tubs, hoping that Reiner will restrict his retaliation to the water hose. 

Tripping over his own feet, Marco isn’t easy to lead over a bumpy, uneven meadow.  He bounces along behind me, stubbing his toes, almost falling at least twice.  I feel bad, but I’m not slowing down. 

“Looks like somebody’s feeling bad about blinding an innocent!” Marco calls accusingly.  “Good to see you’re helping those you hurt, Jean.”

“Oh, please,” I snort, rolling my eyes.  “We both know that you deserved that.  I just feel bad for ickle freckly Marco when you’re at the mercy of that tyrant.”

“My knight in shining armor,” Marco sighs dreamily, still grinning broadly.  “I don’t know what I’d do without you.  Oh, yeah, right; I’d have the flipping hose.”

“Shut up and be grateful I saved your freckled ass from Reiner.”

Mounted atop Ymir’s shoulders with her sudsy sponges in either hand, Krista attempts to take down the giant in the distance.  I figure that our battle is in safe hands for the time being as Ymir tackles Reiner and sends them to the ground in a wave of bubbles. 

“Okay, Marco, let me take a look at your eyes.”  Deciding we’re better safe than sorry with Reiner flailing around with the hose in hand, I pull him down so that we’re crouching beside the buckets together.  “Move your hands, Freckles.”

“I can’t believe Freckles is the nickname you’re going with,” Marco chuckles, but he does as I instruct. 

I wipe a few remaining bubbles from his eyebrows and one off the end of his nose.  “Okay, open one eye slowly.  Lemme see your battle wounds.”

“O-okay…”  Very, very slowly, Marco peels one eye open, his smile becoming more of a grimace over his face. 

I’ll admit, I’m not expecting more than a slight irritation, like he’d gotten shampoo in his eye or something.  I’m totally not prepared for the vibrant pink (borderline red) surrounding his irises, or the tear that slips down his cheek after a mere second of holding it open.  Moaning softly, he snaps his eyelids shut, hiding it again. 

“Shit, man.”  My voice gets tight.  “What was _in_  that horse soap?”

Marco shrugs helplessly.  “I dunno.  I just have a newfound respect for the _Keep out of the horse’s eyes_ label.”

“That looks like it really hurts,” I sympathize, wincing.  “You think it was poisonous or some shit?  …I didn’t permanently blind you, did I?”  Raking a hand through my hair, I huff.  “Dammit, sorry, Freckles.”

“It’s fine, Jean.”  Marco beams at me blindly.  “I needed to be taken down from my high horse.  They wouldn’t put any dangerous chemicals into a shampoo, anyway, even if it is just for ponies.  I’ll be disciplining you with the hose again in no time.” 

I harrumph, rolling my eyes.  “Hose-Hitler.”

“See, that’s more original than Freckles.”

“Oh, shut up, Bodt.”

I wonder if I should wash his eyes out with clean water.  Seeing how all these buckets have been tainted by the soap as well, I think he’ll have to wait until the fighting dies down.  It doesn’t take that long – water fights are only but so entertaining when you’re not drunk as fuck. 

“Hey, Jean?” Marco tilts his head vaguely in my direction, still smiling kindly.  “Once we put up all the horses, can you show me your cameras?  …You did bring them with you, didn’t you?”

I resist the urge to tousle his hair like a puppy.  “Sure thing, Marco.  You thinking about taking up photography?”

“Oh, no,” Marco laughs.  “I’ve never even really held a real camera before.  I just think it’s really cool that you have.  What do you usually take pictures of?” 

A bark of laughter escapes my lips.  “Whatever the fuck Professor Shadis wants me to take pictures of.”

“No, I mean” – he tilts his head to one side – “when you’re not doing a project.”  He leans on his hand, squishing up his freckled cheek again.  “What do you like to take pictures of?  Like, if you could have a day to yourself and take any pics you wanted, what would you choose?”

“Jesus, Marco, you sound like a writing prompt,” I grumble.  “…You know… I have no idea.”  I blink a few times, thinking hard.  “Wow.  Just always seems like I’m being asked to take pictures for one group or another, for a friend’s party or a professor’s project.”

“What are your favorite ways to take a picture, then?”  Marco’s smile is unfaltering in its fascination.  “Do you like certain shots more than others?”

“Uh…”  My emotions waver between embarrassed and flattered.  “Well, okay, confession time: I really like sunset pictures.  Like, things silhouetted by the sunset.  Something about the orange light and… well, if you get it just right, it can be a really, really strong _beam_  of light.  And that’s just perfect when mixed with all the warm colors of downtown Richmond.”

Marco’s smile becomes a little distant, as if he’s imagining my pictures.  “That sounds really pretty, Jean.  I would ask if you’ve got any on your phone, but, well, you’ve blinded me.  I can’t see any of your masterpiece photographs.”

I snicker quietly.  “It was all a part of my grand scheme.  Now, there’s no chance of you seeing my embarrassing photography.”

“You two better not be making out back there!” Ymir jeers, her footsteps plodding ever closer.  “Jean, if you’re groping Marco after you’ve disabled him, I will chop off your hands and feed them to Levi.”

Marco chuckles from besides me, swinging his head back and forth, trying to locate Ymir.  “I’m not sure if I should be thanking you for your concern or running in terror.”

“A little bit of both is always safe,” Krista giggles, walking bow-leggedly forward, her clothes slopping wetly against her skin.  “Are you still having troubles seeing?  Blink a lot.  Like, a whole lot.  Reiner didn’t believe me, so he’s still hunched up in a ball by the fence.”

“If you’re scared, Jean can always hold your hand,” Ymir mocks. 

I cast her an angry glance.  “You know, we’re not all homos around here.”

“Right.”  She grins nastily.  “Some of us are bi, right, Jean?”

“Oh, shut up,” I growl, tempted to dump one of these buckets of water over her head.  “I’m not gay.  And I'm not a homophobe, so don't even go there.”

“Look, Ymir,” Marco pipes up in a voice quieter than usual, blinking madly beside me, “I’m sure Jean’s touched by your concern for his love life, but you’d really better help Reiner pack up the ponies.  We do have a time frame.”

“Bah,” Ymir scoffs.  “Alright, on your feet, Kirschtein.  You, too, Bodt.  We’ve got ponies to pen.”

Everything runs rather smoothly from that point onwards.  Reiner offers his huge jacket to little Krista to help her warm up, but Ymir seems convinced that he only wants to strip down all the way.  Good-naturedly, Marco discusses the topic logically with Ymir, convincing her that Reiner isn’t trying to steal Krista away, his argument summarized in the conclusion that Reiner is gay as shit.  I don’t involve myself with the conversation, though this is usually the stuff I just lap up.

It’s weird, actually.  For some reason, I don’t feel like pulling at any of Ymir’s strings or teasing Krista about her open eagerness with her girlfriend’s lips.  I don’t even respond to Reiner’s quiet, flirtatious remarks about my ass every time I lean down to untie a pony from the fence. 

If I cause trouble with them, I’ll cause trouble for Marco.  As much as I fucking hate being objectified by this blatantly, shamelessly gay asshole, I don’t want to be another cause of grief for the poor freckly dork. 

I have to remind myself that when Reiner’s voice drifts through the pasture as I lean down to untie Dixie’s leadline. 

“That ass is filling up those pants _nice_ -ly,” he sings.  “I know something that could fill up that ass, if you’re interested…”

I grit my teeth and ignore him, keeping my head bowed to hide my furious blush.  Another remark and I will strangle that brawny asshat.

“Reiner?” Marco calls from my left.  I turn to see him slowly walking Levi past, pulling the Devil Pony along without a single difficulty.  He smiles towards Reiner, his brown eyes holding a certain sense of dangerous serenity to them, like the calm before the storm.

“Yes, sweetheart?  Getting jealous?”

“I’d just like to remind you that we don’t tolerate sexual harassment around here.”  Marco’s smile drops into a small (and terrifying) scowl.  “I have your mom’s number, and your uncle’s.  They don’t know about that time in Fredericksburg, do they?”  Judging from Reiner’s rapidly paling face, they do not.  “Another lewd comment to Jean and I will make your life hell.  Don’t think I won’t.”

Reiner shrugs, sticking his tongue out at Marco.  “What are you, a cop?  Fine, I’ll leave him to you.”  Grumbling about sticks up freckled asses, he disappears down the stable's gullet.

“Wait, Marco!”  I pull Dixie along behind me, jogging up to his side.  “Thanks for that.”

“No problem.”  Marco’s gaze couldn’t get any sweeter if you dumped sugar into his eyes.  “If he ever bothers you or makes you uncomfortable, let me know.  Believe it or not, he’s actually quite the softie.  I think he’s falling hard for your friend – Bert, is it?”

“He hates that nickname.”  I smirk, thinking of the teacher-in-training’s sour face whenever someone utters the god-awful shortening of his name.  “It’s Bertholt.  I don’t know if he’ll be available tonight, though.  I think it might just break Reiner’s fragile little heart.” 

Marco’s laughter echoes through the stable.  “Reiner’s nothing if not persistent.  He might sling Bertholt over his shoulder and drag him to a bar if he has to.  Usually, though, it doesn’t go that far.”

I arch a brow at him.  “Usually?”

Those freckles bob up and down in a grave nod.  “Usually.”

“Right, usually.”  I stare at the ground, wondering if I should worry for Bertholt.  “Okay then.  Cool.”

“Oi, Marco!”  Ymir sticks her head out of a stall as we pass – it could be coincidental that a dazed-looking, bruised-lipped Krista glances out as well, but I’m willing to bet it’s not.  “We’re finished in the pony pasture after Reiner brings in his horse.  Put those animals away then meet us at Stable Rose.”

My stomach erupts into butterflies.  Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, how am I supposed to control my phobia around that many horses?  For so long?  What the hell will Reiner think if he sees me acting weird?  Sure as hell won’t keep his trap shut like Marco. 

“Actually, Jean was going to show me all his cameras.  We probably won’t take that long, but you guys should get started while we’re doing that.”

God bless Marco Bodt, the freckled reincarnation of Jesus Christ. 

Ymir narrows her eyes, glaring feistily towards me.  “Fine.  But don’t make out and then blame it on looking at fucking cameras.  My threat for your groping still stands, Kirschtein.”

“You’re hardly one to talk about making out in that tone of voice,” I scoff, tipping my head towards Krista.  “Having fun with the pony in there, you two?”

“Yes, actually, we were.”  Ymir turns her back on us.  “’Bout time we get back to it…”

Marco rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.  Does that smile ever falter?  I don’t want to be there if it ever does. 

He peppers me with questions as we return our ponies back to their stalls, eyes burning with curiosity.  It’s sort of funny, how he wants to know every little thing there is to know about photography, but refuses to admit that he’s into it himself.  Whatever – I’m happy to spill.  It’s strangely alieving, being able to talk to a person willing to hear about what I have to say, instead of forced politeness on an awkward date or a friend that cuts me off with a teasing, “Cool story, bro.”

“Do you have to clean the lenses?” Marco wonders, looking so much like an amazed puppy it makes my heart hurt a bit.  “I mean, I bet they’d get dusty or something.  Not that it’d matter, I guess, but… stupid question?”

“Lil bit, yeah,” I agree, smiling cheekily at him.  “But I do use cleaner on my outer lens, unlike a lot of other photographers.  I don’t use Windex, because the way that sprays, it’d get over everything.  Nah, you’ve got to use the little glasses cleaner bottles.  Ten times better, too, even if they are a bit more expensive.”

Marco’s mouth falls open, and he seems to think for a minute.  “That’s really smart.  Wow.   How did you think of that?”

“I figured it out in high school.”  I shrug nonchalantly.  “You know, back when I had glasses."

Shit, he didn’t know that.  I can just feel any respect I might’ve had from him trickling down the drain… but it’s not.  If anything, Marco seems impressed, not tickled.  

“You had glasses?”  Marco studies me just intently enough to make me feel uncomfortable.  “Do you have contacts in now, or did you get your eyes fixed?”

“Contacts, man,” I laugh, elbowing him.  “We don’t all have money we can throw down the drain.”

“Oh.”  Marco’s brow puckers as he frowns, lost in thought.  “Why did you make the switch?  I mean, glasses would look good on you.  It would match your grungy, hipster look nicely, too.  Not that you look bad or anything.”

I snort.  “I look like a fucking nerd in those things.  Maybe chicks think it’s sexy now, but in high school, that was social suicide.  I dunno, I use my glasses when I’m just hanging around the apartment.  Guess I like contacts more.”

“They won’t get in the way of a camera, I suppose,” Marco says thoughtfully.  “That’s a good plus.  One less article of clothing to worry about when you’re banging somebody, too, I guess.”

I nearly choke.  Marco looks at me, confused, but I hardly stop laughing until I get to the trunk of the car. 

“Dude,” I wheeze, “I thought you were, like, an angel.”

“Sent from the good Lord above.”  One of Marco’s eyebrows quirk, and his lips lift in a half-smile.  “Do you need some water, Jean?  I can’t figure out if you’re coughing your lungs up or if I suddenly became really, really funny, and no one told me.”

Chuckling, I shake my head, yanking the trunk open viciously.  “Sorry to break it to you, but it’s not the latter.  So.  What did you want to see?”

Marco’s eyes light up like a kid that’d just found buried treasure.  He wants to know about fucking _everything_.

Not that I really mind wasting time up here at the top of the hill, sitting on the back of my old Chevrolet, explaining all the different parts of a camera to Marco.  Anything to keep me away from that stable. 

“So, I know that, the longer the long-thing, the more you can zoom, but what the heck would you use that for?”  Marco points towards the most expensive camera in the truck, tilting his head to one side.  “I mean, not to be blunt, but I’m pretty sure if you tried to take a picture of Polo with that, you’d find his fleas.”

“Yeah, this is really more the kind of stuff they use on National Geographic for all those dramatic shots of rare animals and shit.”  I swat his hand away from it.  “No touchy-touchy.  That is not mine.  The university would have my hide if it broke.  Nothing personal – I don’t touch it, either.”

“Okay.”  He stares at it curiously, looking as if he’s physically restraining himself.  “Wow.  This is all so cool, Jean.  You get to take pictures for college credits and I have to sit through biology lectures.  Figures.”

“I can hear the violins playing,” I moan, sticking my lip out at him.  “Getting a respectable degree with nothing to distract you but two horses, how awful!”

“Har dee har.”  Marco rolls his eyes at me, his grin somehow growing broader.  “I suppose I shouldn’t complain.  You haven’t met Back in Black, by the way – he’s my dressage horse.  He’s down in Stable Rose, if you want to meet him.  We call him Batman.”

“Marco…”  I can’t help but smile at his large, hopeful eyes.  “Okay, you know what?  Sure.  In a bit.  Didn’t you want to see a few of my photos first?  I mean, you’re not blind, so…”

He stands there for a few second, his entire face lifting, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly.  “Yeah, Jean, let’s do that first.  I’ve recovered from your crippling soap-attack enough to see your pictures, I think, but if I start blinking a lot or calling orange green, get an ambulance.”

“Oh, shut up.”  Leaning back against the trunk, I yank the screen of my laptop back, scowling at him.  “Do you wanna see my work or not?”

“What sort of stuff do you have?” Marco bubbles, sliding up next to me eagerly.  He leans against my shoulder, neck craning to peer at the screen.  “I mean, what did you take a bunch of them for?  Are they all for your class?”

“Mostly.”  I pretend not to be uncomfortable as he leans his head on my shoulder, glad that he can’t see my blush.  _Dammit, Jean, he’s just trying to see the screen._ “I mean,” I fluster, feeling oddly self-conscious as I click onto my master-portfolio, “I’ve done a few for contests or friends.  Sometimes clubs and shit pay me.  Every now and then I just get, like, a feeling that I have to take pictures and I head down to Maymont Park or some shit and take a bunch of extras.  You know, for future topics or something.”

“Really?”  Marco points towards a picture of a big koi pond.  “Is that what this is?”

I shake my head, enlarging the photo.  “No, that was a project.”  I shift awkwardly, nervous with him viewing my pictures.  “It was to get a picture of reflection, you know?  I thought it looked really good, with a good focal point on that fish right there, see it?  My professor wasn’t thrilled, though.”

“Well, I agree with you.”  I feel Marco’s smile against my shoulder, and my confidence builds just slightly.  “The greyness of the clouds looks good with the orange koi.  Maybe it just wasn’t reflective enough for him.”

Pursing my lips, I shrug.  “Maybe.  But according to Professor Shadis, every picture we take is shit.  So maybe not.  Listen, you want to see anything in particular?  All my older pictures are mixed in here, too, and they’re all shit.  If you want, I could go to a particular folder and we could look at those.”

“I want to see everything, Jean,” Marco says softly.  “Even the worst of your worst are probably better than anything I can take.”

There’s no denying my blush.  Thank God Marco’s eyes are locked intently on the screen.

He’s not lying, either.  The adorable little fuck finds something good in every picture I take, even the blurry pictures and ones I probably took while high as balls.  Pointing out good shots and candid moments in the background and neat color contrasts, he earns his placement, leaning against me like he is. 

Every so often, Marco stirs against my shoulder, or tilts his head in a question, or glances up at me through his lashes.  I’m not even fucking sure why those particular moments stand out in my memory.  All I know is that when he leans against my shoulder and smushes his cheek up against me, giving it that chubby, freckled cuteness, or puffs out a confused breath after my shitty explanations on the different types of flashes, I lose my train of thought.  

It’s sort of strange, having him there, showering me with questions when I keep getting sidetracked.  It's not a bad strange, though.  I could definitely get grow to like this.  Maybe it’s because I’m not used to people getting so uncomfortable next to me, like, ever.  Usually, you’d think I’d sprayed myself in people-repellent. 

“See, I’m going to try and do Polo’s pictures a bit like this.”  I point towards a picture of a charcoal ally cat I’d taken in the early, rosy light of morning.  The cat’s arching its back, so the light glances through the ridges of slightly-matted fur.  “With a different lighting, o’ course, but the same – um, how do I explain this?  The same sort of… air to it?”

“Like, even though it’s going to have a different color pallet,” Marco guesses, “it’ll still have a similar feel to this one.”

“Right,” I agree.  “I’m thinking, maybe we could take pictures with the sunset and get a color pallet like that beer one you liked so much.”

Marco nods vigorously.  His lips had been dripping with praise for a picture a few minutes back with Sasha and Connie sitting at a table with the sunset, the orange light refracting through their beer bottles.  I hadn’t cared for it especially, but you’d think it was bliss in physical form by his description.

“There’s a hill in the Sina pasture that has the best sunset, I used to go up there and watch it when I was an angsty teenager,” Marco offers, smiling. 

“Sounds perfect, but…”  Groaning, I rub at my temple, brow furrowed.  “I cannot picture you as an angsty teenager to save my life.  Ugh.  It’s giving me a migraine.  What did you even have to angst about?  Not being able to spend the whole 24 in a stable with your pony friends?”

Marco giggles, but it’s more subdued than usual.  He shifts beside me, eyes roving off to the distance.  Ever so slightly, his cheek lifts from my shoulder.  In a tone so soft I almost can’t hear, he says, “Among other things, yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trust me when I say that getting horse shampoo in your eyes is equivalent to having God shit in your face. 
> 
> Thanks so much for all those reading and hitting that kudos button, you guys make my day! And those that comment -- well, I live for your comments. 
> 
> Still looking for horse names, though.


	4. Commander Handsome and Handsome Freckles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean meets Commander Handsome, takes pictures of his new favorite model, and gets drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: use of alcohol, homophobic slurs.

Only one horse remains inside the Stable Maria, standing off by its lonesome in the corner.  Other than that and the smell of horse-shit, I’m alone in the hallway.

Honestly, I’m not at all upset about being left inside while the others laugh and hose down horses, despite the softest tang of wistful jealousy in my stomach every time I hear Reiner crack a joke, or Ymir guffaw at something Krista says, or the devious-Marco giggle that follows the sound of someone getting doused by his almighty garden hose. 

It’s a bit humiliating, being AWOL, _yeah_ , but when Krista said that someone ought to clean out the stable, I jumped on the chance to get away from the washing areas. 

That old horse isn’t so bad, either.  He sits in the back of his stall, his muzzle drifting over the sawdust, his ears not lain back or pricked, just – just _still_.  Depressing as it seems, he’s good company.   When I pass by with my broom, he lifts his head, piercing blue eyes watching me indifferently from the darkness of his stall. 

I can’t tell why he’s still there, that old palomino.  Maybe he’s the biggest asshole here, and that’s why they left him all alone. 

Eventually, loneliness forces me to begin talking to him.  I mean, sure, it’s sort of pathetic, but he looks so miserable, I want to help cheer him up. 

Propping the broom up against the stall door, I fish a carrot from my pocket – I’d stolen it from the tack room earlier, thinking maybe that I could win Levi’s affections over through bribery.  This seems like a bit of a bigger deal, though, so Devil Pony can wait.  Clucking my tongue, I wave it around in the air, wondering if he can use horsey-senses to smell it. 

“Oi, uh –“  I glance at the name plate by his door.  “Commander Handsome, is it?  C’mhere, boy, I’ve got you a carrot.”

The horse lifts his head, his nostrils flaring, but he doesn’t express extensive interest in the carrot.  Weird.  Maybe he’s just a depressed, emo horse.  Furrowing my brow, I lean over the stall door, offering him the morsel. 

“Hey, buddy,” I coo softly, rubbing a thumb along the carrot’s side.  “What’s the matter, huh?  What’s got you acting so antisocial?  Why are you still inside?”

He tosses his mane and eyes me incredulously, as if asking, _Why are you?_

I raise an eyebrow at him, smirking.  “Hey, hey, I’ve got an excuse.  What’s yours?”

Commander Handsome turns his head away, but, very, very slowly, he shifts his weight.  One big hoof lifts, then slams against the ground twice, the poof of sawdust floating around his feet bringing my attention to his legs.  My heart pulls, and my mouth spreads open in an O of guilty comprehension. 

“Dude,” I groan, unable to tear my eyes away from his prosthetic leg and the scars that trace up to his shoulder, “that seriously sucks.”

Groaning low in his throat, Commander Handsome drops his head, snorting miserably.  _Tell me about it._

“Does it hurt you?”  I study him worriedly.  “I’m giving you this carrot whether you want it or not.  You need me to step inside for a second?”

Almost as if he can understand me (and I’m not, you know, talking to a dumb horse incapable of speech), Commander Handsome grumbles and slowly lopes towards me.  His prosthetic leg looks stiff and uncomfortable, causing him to limp a bit.  However, big palomino trucks on, even sticking his head out of the window like a dignified little fuck. 

“Hey, buddy.  Little fighter, aren’t you?” 

I hardly feel nervous as his whiskery muzzle nibbles at my fingers, heading down towards me hand, but when his yellow teeth reach out to grab the carrot, I recoil from him.  My breathing heavies slightly, and my fingers clench around the belly of the carrot.  Those piercing blue eyes slide up to me questioningly, his ears pricking and swiveling towards me. 

Smiling an apology, I let him take the carrot from my hand.  I try not to think too much about the crunching nose it makes as it snaps easily between his teeth.  Instead, I focus on the horse in front of me, studying his legs, his face, and the uniquely golden color of his coat. 

“I get the feeling that I’ve seen you somewhere before, Commander Handsome,” I mutter, carefully rubbing two fingers against his velvety nose. 

He flicks his mane, as if to say, _You’re a crazy sonuva bitch, Jean._

I chuckle, not having the dignity to refrain from responding to my imaginary conversation with Commander Handsome.  “Yeah, yeah, right back at you, big guy.”

“You’re adorable, Jean.”

I jump out of my skin, flying backwards from Commander Handsome’s stall, snatching up my broom.  My cheeks blaze red.  At the end of the hall, Marco peeks in, his face spread in a radiant grin.  His eyes sparkle like gemstones, and his wet, tousled hair sticks up every which way. 

“Marco – I, uh –“

“I’m just popping in to warn you that we’re going to be bringing the horses in soon, dork,” he chuckles, patting Commander Handsome on the nose.  “Thought I’d better give you a heads up.  You seem to be bonding well with Erwin.”

“Y-yeah…”  I scratch at the back of my neck, humiliated.  “Why’s he got that leg?  What happened to him?”

Marco shrugs, pursing his lips.  “I don’t know the details – something about a fire?  Whatever.  He ran away from the stable, off into the woods, and got stuck in a bear trap.  He’s found a great home here.”

“Oh.”  A fire?  Which fire?  “So, um, is this the stable you keep Franz in?”

He nods several times.  “He’s on the other end.  Batman, too.  Figured it wasn’t good to have two horses in Stable Sina – I don’t want to take up too much space.  Love Batman, I really do, but I don’t share the same relationship with him that I’ve got with Polo.”

“Yeah?  Why’s that?”

“Well, my parents got Polo when he was just a little colt for my eighteenth birthday.”  Marco’s eyes swim distant waters.  “Trained him myself.  We’ve been together for… what is it, seven years now?  I dunno.  He’s been my buddy for ages.  But Batman, I bid for him at a horse auction and got him sorta by accident.  He’s a dressage horse, and dressage really isn’t my sort of thing.”

“Dressage…”  I frown, rubbing at my chin.  “Isn’t that where the horse basically prances around in fancy little steps?”

“Umm… kind of?”  Marco tilts his head to one side.  “I don’t know, it’s more like the horse… ballet, if that makes any sense.  It’s to boast about the ease of communication between horse and rider, the grace that a horse can obey its master with.  Showing off different movements in a neat, dignified fashion.  Batman’s an American Saddlebred, so he’s got all the moves even if he’s not a standard breed.”

“Jesus, I must seem like an uncultured idiot to you.”  Might as well try to learn from the one person that won’t judge me around here, right?  “So, um.  The fuck kind of breed is that?”

Marco giggles – he stands there, staring at the ground, blushing slightly, and gives me a moment to bask in the light of that grin.  “Well – it’s, uh – a pretty breed.”

I stare at him for a really long time, trying to relay my sarcasm to that dense little brain of his.  “Wow.  My eyes are open now.”

His sheepish smile is adorable as hell, which, in all honesty, isn’t fair.  “Um, well, um…  He’s a pretty breed in that he’s got good posture, a great expression, and a different gait count.  You know, like with most horses, they’ve got four gaits?  Walk, trot, canter, gallop?  That’s called three-gait.  He’s five-gait, meaning that he –”  Marco cuts off, smiling bashfully, just now noticing that I’ve been lost in his wake for some time.  “…It’s hard for me to explain.” 

“No, go ahead.”  I cock a head to one side.  “I’ve got to start relearning this stuff if I’m going to take up this job permanently.”

Marco shrugs.  “Remember, you said I could.  So, instead of having just the basic four gaits, Batman can do two others – a slow gait and the rack.  They’re both high-stepping and proud gaits, kind of like horses marching, except quickly.  Very distinguishable.  That is, if you know what you’re looking for.”

“Okay, yeah.”  Making a face, I attempt to grin at him.  “I have no idea what that means.”

“Didn’t figure you would,” Marco says cheerfully, “considering I don’t know what half of it means, either.  But that’s not the reason I came in here.  Krista wants someone to go with her and Ymir to the Western barn over on the far side – I don’t think she trusts her new date not to press her up against a tree somewhere along the way.  I volunteered you as the one to go with her, since you haven’t seen her ride yet.”

“I might not be able to do anything to stop Ymir,” I sigh, shaking my head.  “Might as well try, though.”

“Might as well.”  Marco grins at me flippantly.  “I’ll be all alone with Reiner – you’ve got it good, my friend.  Listen, I’ve got to go help bring the horses in.  Stay safe, ‘kay, Jean?”

“Sure thing, Freckles.” 

It hits me the second after he ducks out of the stable, jogging back to the pasture where the horses are tethered.  It hits me when my post-Marco grin begins to falter, when Commander Handsome lifts his head, when I recall my crippling phobia. 

Marco hadn’t just volunteered me on accident.  Nothing the freckled bastard does is an accident.  No, he’d saved me from facing the huge horses in Stable Sina… and not embarrassed the shit out of me in the process. 

 

* * *

 

I’ve never seen Marco’s eyes glitter quite so much. 

The daylight glances off the spring green grass in shades of varying golds and orange, each hue only available for a few short minutes before it’s changed by sun sinking behind the horizon, exhausted, lapsing into sleep like a big, orange eye slowly sealing shut.  Around me, the woods go from emerald to onyx, painted black by the evening.  The vivid colors mix so perfectly with the brown of Marco’s eyes and the peppering of his freckles – it’s easy to forget that he’s not actually my model for today’s photoshoot. 

Not that Polo is by any means _not_ good-looking in the sunset.  Marco had dressed him up in a simple bridle with only a band of leather down the side and loops around his ears.  The blaze of white down the center of his face looks good with the sunlight, and his glossy mane seems to shine like it’s in a conditioner commercial.  I get one really good shot that I think I may use of his mane while he’s flicking it, with all the hair fanned out against the sunlight, just a snippet of his neck visible. 

I take a lot of pictures, actually.  Darting around the horse, I take pictures from all angles (down, up, right, left, directly in front of, down and to the left…) and of all subjects (hooves, tail, chest, ears, eyes, nose, back…).  Marco watches me buzz around like a bee, his face twisted into one of amusement.  Freckled bastard never has to know how many of the photos he appears in. 

Almost as if he knows I’m focusing on his face right now, a light blush turns his cheeks pink behind the freckles, and he leans against Polo’s neck, closing his eyes. 

 _Fuck yeah, taking a picture of that_. 

God, the fucker looks adorable, leaning against his horse.  I don’t know if he’s posing on purpose or if he’s just being himself, but whatever it is, I need him to keep doing it. 

“You know,” I blurt thoughtlessly, “you should consider becoming a model.”

“…What?”  Marco laughs.  “Are you taking pictures of me?”

I hesitate.  If I lie, he’ll probably go through my portfolio later and figure it out anyway.  “A few, yeah.  You know, for future projects and such.  But seriously.  You should consider it.”

“Oh, really, Jean?”  Marco drapes himself over Polo, placing a single finger seductively against his lips, staring at me through his eyelashes.  “You like what you see?”

Smirking, I snap a shot of that.

“No –”  Shocked, Marco stands up straight, going red.  “God, you weren’t actually supposed to like what you saw, Jean.  I hope you actually got some pictures of Polo, stalker.”

I roll my eyes.  “You have too high an opinion of yourself.  Look, I’m just saying, if you ever need a job other than your own little business, you’d make a killer model.  People would die the combination of your freckles and eyes.”

“Oh, shut up,” Marco says bashfully, glancing down at the ground, still blushing madly.  He looks at me once through his lashes, before blushing harder and staring at his feet.    

“I’m being serious, Bodt.  Anytime you need extra cash.  I know I’ll hire you.”

Marco shrugs, now borderline uncomfortable.  “Oh, uh, t-thanks.  Hey, are you finished with taking the pictures yet, or do we still need more?  I’m willing to stay here all night if you are, but… we’ve got arrangements.”

I check my watch, scowling.  “Mmm.  I guess I’ve got a good number to work with.  If we’re going to hit the bar tonight, we need to get going soon.” 

“Plus,” Marco adds, “Reiner already seemed impatient last time he stormed up – maybe we’d better get going.” 

Screwing the lens onto my camera, I walk up beside him and bump my shoulder against his.  “Cool, we can get going then.  It’s getting too dark to take good pictures, anyway.”

“Alright.”  Marco’s eyes light up.  “Do you think you got any, you know, good pictures?”

My own excitement gets the better of me.  I explain the picture of Polo flicking his mane in great detail, using photography terms Marco probably doesn’t even slightly understand.  For some reason, though, I don’t stop talking – I mean, it’s not like the freckled bastard looks bored.  As I explain how satisfying it is to not have to photoshop a lens flare onto the picture, he smiles kindly at me, eyes soft and curious. 

Comforted by his interest, I launch into another rant as we walk side-by-side back to Stable Sina, him and I.  The sun seems to watch us with a lazy smirk as it slips below the horizon, I notice between glances towards Marco, smiling condescendingly down at me like it knows a secret. 

Once my rant about the camera’s stupid defect with its auto-flash, Marco begins to talk, taking my place immediately.  He explains something he thinks might be interesting for me to photograph next. 

I love the detail with which he describes a hidden waterfall back way in the deep recesses of the West Trost Woods, only accessible by a rocky path half-overgrown with weeds.  His words flow together eloquently in a way mine never can – not once does he falter with an “um” or “uh”, and not once does he use a word that feels… misplaced, or incorrectly used. 

The moment he finishes up talking about the waterfall, I discuss some similar ocean shots I’d taken last year and technics I’ll have to apply. 

Onwards we go, talking about horses and photography and college and sunsets and horses again.  When Marco is there, next to me, I hardly notice the massive animal walking beside him with thumping hoofbeats.  I don’t really think about the trauma that’ll be entering Stable Sina with him, either. 

Little bastard’s a bit of a balm to my nerves – around him, I can talk freely, and not even worry about the horses.  …It’s a bit relieving, not having to worry about them.  I like it a lot more than I’ll ever let him know.    

“…and so there I was,” I explain, grinning at Marco, gesticulating vividly with my hands, “in this nutball of a park-ranger’s office, sitting there _so_ awkwardly.  She started cracking her gum, but when I made a face, she glared at me like a viper.  I started to wonder if this was even a good idea.”

“Jean, getting a reclusive park-ranger’s pet snake to bite in your general direction never was a good idea in the first place,” Marco giggles. 

“Yeah, well, I’m an idiot.”  I shrug, not really dwelling on it.  “And so I’m sitting there, she’s cracking her gum, and we’re both waiting for her colleague to emerge from the back room with the snake, when, um, when she – oh my God, Marco.  She apparently was done with her gum, so she pulled out her fake teeth –“

Marco makes a face that’s difficult not to laugh at. 

“– and put them on my papers.”  I raise my hands up to the sky in exclamation.  “Right next to my camera.  And then, with her slimy fingers, she takes pulls the gum off of one of the teeth.”

“Oh, God,” Marco moans.  “You’re making me sick.”

“It gets worse.”  I grimace, shivering.  “Once she’s peeled this gum off of her fake teeth, she turns around and throws it vaguely towards the trash can.  But it doesn’t go anywhere near the trash can – instead, it gets stuck in a stuffed fox’s fur.  Landed between its ears.  Fucking hell, there were so many gum wads in that poor taxidermied animal’s fur, I almost felt bad for it.”

“Poor fox,” he agrees.  “Must’ve sucked, dying, then getting stuffed, then being used as the bottom of a lunchroom table by a reclusive park-ranger.”

“Right?”  Shaking my head, I shiver, my grimace only getting worse.  “Okay, so, then, squinting at the gum in the fox’s fur as if she could somehow remove it with her mind, she gropes with her slobbery fingers for her teeth to put them back in, and she _grabs my fucking camera_.”

Marco pales.  “Holy crap.  Did she break it?”

I hold up a hand, cocking my eyebrow and twisting my lips into a bitter smile.  “Oh, Marco, it gets so much worse.  So, I’m sitting there in horror as she’s feeling up my camera with her slobbery spit-fingers.  somehow, this _dumbass_ doesn’t realize that _it’s not her teeth_ and _tries to shove my camera in her mouth_.”

Marco sits in silence for a moment, his mouth dropping open.  “No way.”

“That’s what I was thinking, Freckles.”

Marco’s eyebrows look so dorky when he’s concerned – it’s a bit cute.  I could totally see this guy as a puppy.  “Was your camera okay?”

“Barely lived to tell the tale, but hey.”  I grin sideways at him, winking.  “It took pictures of you, right?”

“Well, at least the park-ranger didn’t damage it.”  He puffs out his cheeks, eyes lighting up suddenly.  “I’m sure she did it acci- _dental-_ ly.”  His lips pull into a taut smile, eyes dancing with humor as they stare down at me, waiting for me to get his monumentally bad pun. 

“Oh, my God, Marco,” I groan, covering my eyes with a hand.  “That is the worst – you know what, I’m not even touching that pun.  Not with a ten foot pole.”

He waves a hand, sticking his nose into the air.  “You’re just jealous.  I’m hilarious.  I’m hilarious, aren’t I, Polo?” 

Despite his efforts to speak in just a little breath, I catch his slightest whisper of his own name.  Upon hearing his master’s command word, Polo tosses his head up and down, snorting, and puts a little bit more spring in his step. 

Marco grins dorkily at me.  “The horse agrees.  The horse is always right.”

“The horse does that every time you say your own name.”  I roll my eyes up to the sky.  “God, Marco, you’re a dweeb.”

His smile is invulnerable to my teasing.  “You have no proof that I said my name.  Polo could’ve just been agreeing with me.  Is that so hard to believe?”

“Marco, I heard you,” I groan, rolling my eyes.  “You are not fooling anyone with your little horse games.”

“I never did such a thing!” he cries, feigning indignity.  “Now, Polo, did you ever hear me say Marco?”

As the horse again begins its prancing response, I glare down Marco, suddenly finding that corny grin insufferable – it still takes a great deal of iron will not to smirk.  “That is _not_ funny.  _You_ are _not_ funny.”

“I think I’m hilarious.”

“Obviously,” I snort, rolling my eyes.  I look off into the distance, trying to hide my grin from him.  “Whether or not the rest of the world believes the same, well, you don’t care, do you, Freckles?  Wait, lemme answer that – obviously not.”

Marco bumps his shoulder against mine, giggling.  “You’re just jealous.  I bet you just wish the horse agreed with everything you said.”

“You would lose that bet.”  I cuff him gently, no longer caring if he sees me smiling.  “Not everyone needs an animal sidekick for comedic relief, Freckles.  Most of us can just put on a show by ourselves.”

Demeanor shifting, Marco glances towards the ground, thrusting out his lower lip in a pathetic pout.  “You’re doing wonders to my self-esteem, you know.  Keep it up and I’m going to have to buy out Ben and Jerry’s to deal with my suffering.”

I cuff him again, laughing quietly.  “Buck up, buttercup.”

Marco beams and rolls his eyes, that miserable expression fading away easily.  “You’d make children cry, Jean, I hope you know that.”

“You bet I would.  There’s a reason I avoid kids.”

“You’re going to be alone forever.”  Grinning off into the distance, Marco’s lost in thought for a few seconds.  “Hey, Jean, I think Reiner’s left me here – I don’t see his car in the parking lot.  We carpooled this morning, and – well, I wouldn’t put it past him to forget that.  You mind giving me a lift to the bar you mentioned earlier?”

“Uh –“ I nod a few times, scanning the parking lot for Reiner’s car, disregarding the fact that I’ve got no idea what it looks like.  “Yeah, sure, I guess.  I mean, it’s not the cleanest of things, and its… its glory days are long gone.”

“It can’t be any worse than Reiner’s car.”  Marco grimaces, shuddering at the memory.  “So long as I can’t _smell_ all the steamy moments you’ve had in your car, I’m good to go.”

I almost choke on my laughter.  “Oh, Jesus.  I’m so sorry, Marco.”

He shrugs.  “What can be done?  Listen, let me put Polo away for the night, and then I’ll meet you at your car.  Who knows?  Maybe you can already have a few photos selected by the time I’m there.”

There he goes again, keeping me away from the horses.  Irritation prickles along the back of my neck.  I’m tempted to tell him that I’ll go with him into the stable, to tell him to fuck off and let me face my fears, tell him that I can handle my phobia by myself – before I can utter a word, though, a crushing realization hits me: I can’t. 

I _can’t_ enter a stable filled with those towering, white-eyed horses.  I _can’t_ help Marco groom Polo.  I can’t even walk him to the door.  Misery bundles my heart in the thick folds of its heavy sadness, strangling each of its little beats, and a cold stone pulls my stomach downwards. 

Marco has to protect me from the horses.  He has to go out of his way and pick up the slack because I’m an inadequate stablehand.  I’m a burden on perfect little him, and… the guilt hits me like a load of bricks, as does the humiliation. 

How can he take me seriously, a stablehand afraid of horses? 

Glancing away from Marco, refusing to meet his eyes, I nod disjointedly. 

A warm hand grips my shoulder, and a tender gaze seeks mine.  “Hey, hey, Jean, it’s okay.  There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

I say nothing – Marco’s hand is firm on my shoulder.  Though I dare not breathe a word of it, the simple gesture gives me a sense of content, and his brown eyes are so deep I would drown in them if I dared to look up.  My heart pangs from inside its miserable swaddle. 

Sighing, Marco squeezes my shoulder and then lets his hand fall back to his side.  My eyes widen, and I glance up at him, wondering if I’d wounded his feelings.  His gaze is as warm as ever, but his smile is slightly subdued, slightly embarrassed. 

“Jean, listen, if you ever need to talk… you know where to find me.”

Oh, shit, time to recapture the teasing mood.  I smirk, glancing up at him.  “On the back of some horse, somewhere.”

“Right.”  Marco chuckles, rolling his eyes.  “You know me so well.  Listen, Polo’s getting antsy, I’d better…”

I wave a hand, smirking at him.  “Scram, Marco.  I’ll be waiting in my car.”

“Okay.”  His eyes are like cocoa again, thick and warm, perfect for snuggling up in a big, woolly blanket on a cold day.  “I’ll be there, Jean.”

 

* * *

 

“Marco,” I croon, leaning against his arm.  “Maaaarco, I need another drink.”

Tingles flutter through my veins with in a little tickly rush, and Marco giggles, poking my cheek.  “You’re drunk, Jean.  Think it’s time to head home, buddy?”

“Nooooo,” I moan, rubbing my forehead against his bicep.  “I wan’… another drink.”

“Jean, I think –”  He mumbles something beneath his breath, something I don’t catch.  I lift my head and stare up at him, but he doesn’t elaborate with anything more than, “I’ll be back.  Don’t go anywhere.”

“Maaaarco,” I whine, but he’s already gone.  I try to stand up, but he’s already gone, lost in the writhing, sweaty bodies of the people clumping around the bar-table.  I scowl at them – this is my bar, after all.  The hell are they doing here?  …Do I really care?  I don’t know.  Maybe I should get another drink.

Yes, that’s right, another drink. 

I scoot my chair closer towards the blonde, sticking my head between him and Bert, still scowling blackly.  “ _Reiner_.”

“Yeah, photographer?”  He glares at me sideways, his lips yanked up in a festive grin. 

“Gemme a drink.”

“Get your own damn drink,” Bert slurs, kissing up Reiner’s neck, causing the big man to purr like a cat.  “Reiney is _alllllll_ mine.  Mmm, you taste so good, babe.”

Growling, Reiner leans back against Bert, peeling his lips back in a licentious snarl and nipping at his boyfriend's ear.  “Sorry, photographer, already got my babe for the night.  Go find Marco and give him a good fucking – oh, _Bert_ , this is _my song!_ ”

Bert nods gravely.  “Then we must go.  Sorry, Jean, this is _his song_.”

“Don’t leave me,” I whine, clawing at Reiner’s sleeve.  “Don’t – oh, fuck, _this_ song.”  I grin up at the ceiling, blinking, trying to locate the speakers.  “I fucking love this song.  I’m coming, too.”

Actually, I’ve heard this song maybe twice.  But hey, I’m pretty sure I remember the lyrics. 

My legs feel like lead as they hit the ground.  Grinning, I stagger after Reiner and Bert, the sea of people around me bouncing to the quick-beated rhythm of whatever pop song it is.  Normally, I don’t like pop, but I like this one song so fucking much…  Hell, I bet I can nail the chorus by the end of tonight.

“No,” comes Marco’s voice in my ear.  He grabs my arm, spinning me around.  “No, bad Jean.  Stay away from the dance floor.”

“Maaaaarco!” I crow, smothering him in a hug.  “Where did you go, Maaarco?  I was worried about you!”

“I was helping some girl out with a sleazy drunk dude on the dance floor.”  Marco begins to drag me backwards, stifling laughter.  “I am not letting you become that sleazy drunk dude on the dance floor.”

“But Marco,” I explain to him, knowing full well that he obviously doesn’t hear what he’s saying, “you’ve never seen me dance before.  This is my song.  I’m going to dance to it.  You can come, toooooooo!”

Marco giggles.  “Jean, whenever this song came on the radio in your car, you’d threaten to stab the speakers.”

“Whaaat?”  I blink a few times, wondering why I would possibly do that, then accuse, “You’re lying!”

“No, Jean, I’m not.” 

“Why would I do that?” I demand, staring up at the ceiling.  “I fucking _love_ this song.”

“Right.”  Marco tugs on my hand, pulling me towards the door.  “Look, Jean, I think I’d better drag you back while you can still tell me where you live…”

“But Maaaarco!”  I throw all my weight backwards, which, as it so happens, is a bit more than I need – I hurl myself backwards, slamming into a bar table.  Murmuring an apology to the people with spilled drinks, I turn my attention back to Freckles. 

“Marco, I’ve got to show you,” I explain to him patiently.   “I’ve got to dance for you.  Then you’ll see how great a dancer I am.  You’ll forget all about my fear of horses then.”

“Um, Jean, no.”  He eyes me hesitantly, biting his lip.  “Look, um, wouldn’t you like to show me your dancing skills elsewhere…?”

“But the song is almost over, Maaaarco!  And” – I make sure to stress my words so he’ll understand – “ _how can I dance if this song isn’t playing?_ ”

He grins at me, shaking his head slowly.  “See, this is why I like being designated driver.  I get to see you all like this.  Jean, it’s okay, this song will play again in, like, twenty minutes.  Then you can dance to it.  But for now, we should really –“

Those warm brown eyes harden suddenly, turning away from me.  His mouth drops open slightly, and his eyebrows curve with something like horror.  I glare up at him, jealousy blazing – why isn’t he looking at me?  Who is he looking at instead? 

“We don’t want your kind around here!” someone from behind me snarls.  “Fucking queers!”

Staggering around, I see two blurry shapes surrounded by an angry mob.  Reiner, I realize.  Reiner wrapped around Bertholt protectively, keeping him tucked under a wing, away from the angry drunkards.  His blue eyes blaze with the fire of a fight.

“Shit, Jean,” Marco says in my ear.  “This could get ugly.”

“Let’s help!” I say enthusiastically. 

“Bad idea,” Marco murmurs.  “Stay out of this, Jean, for me.  You can do that for me, can’t you?”

Helpless against the strained, pleading tones in his voice, I freeze, my lips peeling further back into a snarl with each insult hurled towards Bertholt and Reiner. 

“Find Jesus, you disgusting fags!”  “Ugh, I didn’t know it was one of those types of bars!”  “Cock-suckers!”  “Get outta the bar, faggots!”  “Pillow-biters!”

“Calm, Reiner,” Bert says, rubbing his knuckles against his fuckbuddy’s temple, soothing him as the drunkards mob up on them.  My anger boils with each new voice chiming in with insults. 

Fuck these guys.  Fuck all of them.  They didn’t have any trouble with Ymir and Krista making out in the back of the room – some of them even had whistled, goaded them on, until they snuck away. 

“Disgusting bears!”  “You make me wanna throw up!”  “I am going to throw up!”  “Look what you did, queers!  She’s vomiting now!”

The short bartender waddles up to the scene, shoving me out of the way as he does so.  Smacking fat lips together, he approaches Reiner and Bertholt, scowling.  “I won’t have the likes of _you_ in my building.  Get out, get the fuck out, and don’t you think about coming back. Don't cause trouble on your way out."

A collective cheer runs around the bar.  My ears burn with fury.  I can feel my fists clenching. 

“Calm,” Marco urges, putting his lips right next to my ears, his voice quiet but stressed. 

“It’s okay.”  Reiner slings an arm over Bertholt’s shoulder, scowling blackly at the crowds surrounding him.  “Bert and I were already headed out.  Your beer sucks, anyway.”

My brain spins with fury as they march out, shoving the doors open.  Every muscle in my body is taut.  I wanna punch something, hard, I wanna beat it up.  It isn’t fair.  Fucking homophobes around every bend.  Fucking homophobes driving Bertholt and Reiner from the bar.  Because of love.  I can feel my face growing red with anger. 

The bartender waddles towards me on his way back, and I step in front of him, baring my teeth at him like an animal. 

I imagine I look pretty intimidating, but he doesn’t blink twice.  That bald head just rolls up, squinty blue eyes glaring at me from deep within their sockets, fat lips smacking together. 

“Can I help you?” he gurgles in a weary voice that just makes me want to punch his guts out.

“There was no reason for you to do that,” I growl through gritted teeth.  “Bullying those men out of the shop.”

“It’s bar policy.”  He lifts one prickly eyebrow, sneering up at me.  “Why?  Those fags friends of yours?  You need to find better friends if that’s the case, son.”

Marco rests a hand on my shoulder.  “Calm down, man.”

“What if I was?” I spit, the room spinning as the rage builds and builds.  “What if I was gay, too?  Would you throw me out of the shop?  Fucking paying customer?”

“Yes.”  The bartender looks livid.  “Without a second question.  That is bar policy – no cock-suckers allowed.”

“Well, then, in that case, you’re going to have to ban me.”  Furiously, I rip around, grabbing Marco’s shirt collar, and smash his lips against mine, fervent with fury. 

He squeaks against my mouth, but, for some reason, I don’t pay very much attention to that.  No, I don’t think very much about poor Marco at all – instead, I focus on the bartender’s horrified face and shove my tongue into poor Freckle’s mouth.  Growling, reveling in the nightmares I’m gonna give this guy without even throwing a punch, I deepen our kiss. 

Marco’s hand fists in my hair.  My first thought is that _he’s_ going to deepen the kiss further.  _Noooo, Marco_ , I urge him mentally.  _That’d make it hella awkward_.  For a second, seems like he might – his fingers linger in my hair for just a moment, before he rips me back, away from him, gasping for air. 

“Jean…”  He moans and buries his face in one hand.  “God, man…”

“We’re leaving,” I announce, dragging Marco towards the door.  “We’re _banned_ now.”  I speak very loudly so that everyone will hear me, everyone will know how stupid this all is.  “Don’t expect us back.”

“Jean,” Marco whimpers. 

Ignoring him, I shove the heavy door open with all my might and stumble out into the cold nighttime air.  I gasp with shock, totally having forgotten that the outside doesn’t smell like beer and sweat.  Releasing Marco’s hand, I stagger out to the edge of the sidewalk, sniffing, giggling. 

“Maaaarco, it smells so nice out here.”  I laugh, finding his beet-red face amusing.  “Maaarco.  Where’s Reiner?  And Bert?”

“Uh, they probably got out of here.  Jesus, dude, you are so drunk.  How much did you drink?”

I spread my hands apart, showing him as how much with a sage nod. 

“Okay, Jean.”  Marco bites his lip, a small, silly smile playing with his mouth.  “Hey, do me a favor, get away from the street – I don’t want you tripping and then getting run over.”

“Street?”  I turn around slowly, my feet feeling heavy.  The world spins with my head.  “What – ugghhh.”

A car hurdles past in the darkness, engine squealing, bright headlights hurting my eyes.  Nausea stirs volatilely in my stomach as it blazes past, like a monster, warping my vision.  Groaning, I stumble backwards towards Marco. 

With a moan of his name, I double over, bracing myself against something – I’m not sure what, it could be a car, it could be a tree, maybe it’s Marco – and vomit all over the sidewalk. 

“Oh –”  Marco’s hands appear on my back, massaging me gently.  “O-okay.  Get it all out, buddy.  That’s it.  That’s it.”

“Maaaarco,” I moan, lifting my head slightly – another car whizzes past, and my stomach lurches again. 

“Don’t try to talk, Jean.”  He giggles softly, his voice surprisingly gentle.  “Reiner’s going to get a kick out of this tomorrow.”

“Don’ tell him,” I mumble, shaking my head.  “’m not even that drunk.  Cars are just trippy.”  As he launches into laughter, I turn around and squint at him.  “Maaaaarco.”

“Yes, Jean?”  He pulls a tissue from his pocket, pulling a disgusted grimace and dabs around my mouth. 

“Don’ laugh at me.”

“You’re making it hard for me.”  With a certain touch of softness to his eyes, he smiles, shrugging off his coat and draping it over my shoulders.  “Can I have your phone, Jean?  I need to call someone to come and pick you up.  I’ve got no idea where you live.”

“Ummm.”  I furrow my brow, thinking.  “My phone.  That is... _usually_ in my pocket.”

“Okay, great, can I have it?”

“Sure.”

I stare out at the street, glaring at one of the cars, silently challenging it to rev to life and make me throw up again. 

“Um, Jean?  Phone?”

“Yeah…”  I glance at him, nodding a few times.  “I told you.  It’s in my pocket.”

“Uh – okay.”  Hesitantly, he reaches forward, slipping his hand inside my pocket.  I don't think much of it, even as his fingers graze over my thigh in their search for my phone.

“M-Marco,” I note, staggering the words through a massive yawn, “you – you’ve got a red face.”

“Really?”  He cracks a slight smile, glancing up at me in amusement, his bashful eyes the only things that don’t seem to be pitching and swaying like I'm on a boat.  I stare at them, enjoying that stable feeling.  “I had no idea.  Thanks for the update.”

“Ayyyy, what are friends for?”  Grinning, I bump my shoulder against his, then stumble along after him as he drags me towards a bench.  “You’re my friend.  I do friendly things.  That’s…”  I lose my train of thought, staring up into his big, glittery brown eyes.  I notice they catch the light of the streetlamps beautifully.  Dammit, wish I had my camera. 

“Earth to Jean.”  Marco grins at me, waving a hand over my face.  “Come in, Jean.”

Irritated, I blink several times, scowling deeply.  “Wha?”

“Hey, buddy, who do you want me to call?”  Somehow, he’d gotten through my phone’s lock – maybe I’d told him my numbers, I don’t remember – and is scrolling through my contacts.  “Who, um, who do you want to get you home?”

“Noooo one.”  Plopping down beside him on the bench, I lean against his arm, sighing heavily.  “Maaaarco.  I wan’ another drink.”

He shakes his head with a broad grin.  “No, I think you’re done with drinks for the night.  Seriously, Jon-Bon, who do you want me to call?”

“Nooooo.”

“Okay, fine.”  Shrugging, Marco glances down at me, his lips still perked upwards.  “Where do you live, then?  Because I’m not letting you go home yourself.”

“Um…”  I furrow my brow, trying to remember where Connie’s apartment is.  “Somewhere high.”

“Not as high as you,” Marco mutters beneath his breath. 

“Whaaa?  What did you say, Maaarco?”  I nuzzle up against his shoulder and look up at him.  Marco declines to respond.  Irked by this, I lift a hand to poke his cheek, watching the freckles cave around my fingertip, suddenly entranced by it.  “Maaa – oh.”

“Oh?”

“Oh.”  I beam at him, tipping my head to the side slightly and rubbing my knuckles against his cheek.  “Your freckles.  They make me _happy_.”

Marco stifles a laugh.  “I’m glad.  Listen, this Connie guy – you shared a discussion about your laundry?  Is he your roommate?  He the one to call?”

“Fucking Connie won’t let me use his fucking laundry.  He’s so meeean.”  Grouchily, I poke at his cheek some more, allowing those freckles to cheer me up. 

“Okay, then, I’ll take that as a yes.” 

For a little while, Marco doesn’t say anything else.  Not that I have much of a problem with that – he lets me knead my knuckles against his freckles, tolerant as I pinch and pull at his lovely cheek fat.  Every now and then, I’ll whisper something about his beautiful freckles, and he’ll smile, rolling his eyes to disguise their sparkling.  I really like that sparkling. 

Marco begins to talk, murmuring quietly, allowing me to poke and prod as his cheeks.  I don’t think anything of it – obviously, his adorableness has driven him insane, and he’s talking to invisible people. 

When those invisible people start talking back, I nearly jump out of my skin. 

“Connie!” I yelp, pinching Marco’s cheek in fear.  Whipping my head back and forth, I search for him.  “Where is ‘e?  Where?”

“Ner, Jearn,” Marco says, his voice funny because of his pinched cheek, “phrone.”

“Ohhhhhhh.”  A slow grin spreading over my face, I nod a few times, settling my head back on his shoulder.  “Okay.”  Clearing my throat, I get real close to Marco so that the speaker will pick my voice up, and shout, “HI, CONNIE!”

Marco giggles, clapping a hand over his ear.  “Ow, Jean.  It isn’t one ear and out the other.”

“Duh.”  I roll my eyes.  “Silly Marco.  That’s not how ears work.”

“Yes, obviously, silly me.”  Into the phone, Marco mumbles, “Do you see what I’m talking about?  Help me.”

I poke his cheek.  “ _I_ can help you.”

“Yes, Jean, you are helping me.”  Marco sounds distracted, and it makes me frown.  I want his attention back on me.  Furrowing my brow and scowling, I poke up his face until I’m jabbing my finger against his temple, pushing his face to the side as he mumbles into the phone. 

“Maaaaarco,” I whine, scowling at him.  “I wanna help you.”

Grinning broadly, Marco pulls my phone away from his ear, shoving it in his pocket.  “Okay, okay, Jean, you can help me.  The way I want you to help me right now is to… tell me why you’re living in a couple’s apartment with them.”

“Because I’m poor as shit.”  I lean my head against his neck, smiling to myself as the lights begin to dim. 

“Is that why you work so hard, even with your… your hindrance?”  Marco leans his head against me, too, relaxed and weary, his voice like a lullaby. 

“Mmhmm,” I agree, sighing, closing my eyes.  “That or I’m gonna hav’ ta marry rich.  And I _hate_ rich people.”  After a pause to let me realize how _rude_ that might sound, I slur, “Not you, though, Marco.  I _like_ you.”

“Hmm.”  Marco sounds thoughtful; with each of his words I feel myself falling asleep, drifting off into a sea of dreams.  “I’ve wondered why you’ve been sticking around.  By the way, I think that’s really brave of you.  You’re – you’re very, very scared of them, I know, I can tell.  I don’t know why.  But it’s – you’re weak.  But… you try to be strong.  It’s why I respect you.”

I mumble something.  I’m actually not sure what it is.

“Okay, okay, another time.”  Laughing tenderly, Marco nudges a lock of hair out of my eyes.  “’Night, Jon-Bon.  Sweet dreams.”


	5. Selfies and Whitney Houston

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean loses a phone, but gains a new appreciation for Marco's good nature

The slow, lethargic drag of a person’s mind as they go from sleeping to awake has never been so hastened by Sasha Braus and Connie Springer.  

“He’s coming to,” I hear Sasha squeal as she tugs at me hair.  “Oh, God, I wonder what he remembers?”

“Probably nothing,” Connie estimates.  Through my single crescent of vision, I glimpse his white-toothed smile.  “Wasted as hell.  Oi, Jeanie, you up?”

He pokes me on the nose, and I respond with a rather guttural groan.  Or maybe it’s an all-out snarl.  To hell if I care. 

“He’s up!” Sasha announces to no one in particular.  “Great!  How you feeling, Jean?”

I grunt, trying to roll over or throw a pillow at them or _something_ – everything about me feels like shit, and I don’t need their badgering right now.  “Ger erway,” I manage, stuffing my face into an uncomfortably stiff couch pillow. 

“Dude, you’re lucky your friend has connections, else you’d have to be at work by now.”  Connie pokes me in the ear, startling me out of my dozing stupor.  “And after everything you did to him, too…  How much do you remember?”

“Tell us,” Sasha insists – they’re both kneeling in front of me as I lie on the couch, but she scoots closer, sticking her face right next to mine. 

I moan out a sigh, shuttering my eyes.  “Uh… mmm… we went to a homophobic bar.”

Burying my face in my pillow, I groan again, wishing to banish the shitty fatigue dragging my limbs downwards, keeping me from jumping up and bashing their smiles off. 

“…That’s it?”  Connie grins, baring all his teeth.  “That’s all you remember?”

“Is there anything else to remember?” I grouch, shaking my head.  “Marco kept me out of trouble, didn’t he?”

“For the most part, yes, he kept you out of trouble.”  Sasha is like a redheaded devil, her teeth bared in a terrible grin.  “He just shouldered the brunt of drunk-Jean himself.  _You bastard_.”

My eyes snap open, and every muscle in my body tenses – I feel like I’m gonna hurl.  No, wait, I’m actually gonna hurl. 

Recognizing symptoms she knows very well, Sasha squawks and grabs a pot, holding it out for me.  I feebly claw at the couch, barely managing to drag my head over the side of the pillow before letting lose. 

“Dude,” Connie sighs as I shift from vomiting to dry-heaving, “you live in our apartment, and you don’t even think about inviting us to things.  How ungrateful.”

“Shuddup, dick,” I growl, longing for a paper towel.  “Wha’ did I do to Marco?”

Sasha provides me with a napkin, unprompted – I could kiss the ground at her feet.  Of course, she’s been wasted enough times she should know how to take care of one of her own by now, too, so I don’t take it as too high a compliment.

“You were actually pretty good,” Connie admits, shrugging.  “I mean, you didn’t pick a fight and beat the shit out of his adorable freckled ass like you usually do.  No, you just _wanted_ that adorable freckled ass.”

“…What?”

“It’s so totally true!” Sasha bubbles, bouncing up and down.  “See, Reiner and Bertholt got kicked out a bar for being gay, so you got angry at the bartender and made out with Marco.  Like, _with tongue_.”

“Poor boy was so embarrassed, stuttering things about how he’s pretty sure you’re straight.”  Connie shakes his head, grinning wolfishly.  “Almost like he was hoping you weren’t.”

Sasha coos softly, clapping her hands to her cheeks.  “Drunk-Jean must be a good kisser.”

“Oh my God.”  I press my forehead against the pillow, squeezing my eyes shut.  “No, no, _no_.  Please tell me that was it.”

“You were also, like, weirdly clingy,” Sasha adds.  “Like, your shoulder had to be touching Marco’s shoulder or else you’d flip out.  And you kept saying his name when he would ask you a question or something.  Real drunkenly.”

“ _Maaaaarco_ ,” Connie imitates, batting his eyelashes for an absolutely necessary extra effect. 

“And then, when he tried to leave, you attacked him.”

Panicked, I rip my head from the pillow – it brings on another wave of nausea, but I don’t care.  “What?!  I thought you said I wasn’t in an aggressive mood!”

“You weren’t,” Sasha reassures.  “You attacked him like a koala.”

“Never seen anyone do it before.”  Connie cackles, throwing his head back.  “Imagine bear-hugging someone with your arms and legs.  You flew at him and attacked him with one of those hugs.  Poor freckled dude hit the ground with a yelp, and you didn’t let him go until you’d fallen asleep.”

“Oh, God, smite me now."  Savage mortification rips apart my stomach – my eyes, yanked open against my pillow, roll back and forth, memorizing the pattern of the fabric.  With each passing second, my grip grows tighter around the pillow.  I feel like ripping something’s guts out.  Grinding my teeth with a furious grimace, I wonder what the hell I did Sasha and Connie don’t know about, and what Bodt must think of me now. 

“ _Maaaaarco_ ,” Sasha wails, her eyes sparkling spitefully. 

I scowl at her from my pillow.  “Yeah, well, obviously I didn’t want him to leave me here with you two shitheads.  We were having a good time.  …Ain’t nothing gay about that.”

“Yeah,” Connie agrees, mocking my tone, “there’s nothing gay about demanding us to draw freckles on you so that you could look like bae.”

My intimidating glare is watered down by fear.  “ _What?_ ”

“We took you to the bathroom to vomit your guts out after you woke up without your freckled baby.”  Sasha tries to sound nonchalant, but she looks too much like a devious jackal to pull the look off.  “You looked at yourself in the mirror and demanded that we make you look like Marco.  ‘Make me beautiful too, Sasha!’”

I close my eyes, exhaling slowly through my nose.  If I thought my stomach could handle it, I’d rip her throat out.  “You drew freckles on me, didn’t you?”

“Who were we to turn a drunk man down?” Connie says innocently.

“Bastards,” I groan, burying my face in the pillow.  My cheeks burn – goddammit, if Marco ever hears about that…  Goddammit, if Jaeger finds out…  If Reiner lends an ear to gossip… Jesus Christ. 

“Connie, you didn’t post a picture on Instagram, did you?”  Forcing a smile on my face, I lift my gaze from the coarse fabric of the pillow.  As Connie’s delight wavers, I bare my teeth at him, narrowing my eyes.  “Connie?”

“Okay, maybe,” he says nervously, inching backwards, “but your boyfriend has your phone.  He’s been blowing up your Instagram with selfies.”

“I’M GOING TO CRUSH YOUR BALD SKULL, CONNIE!” 

They flee like hyenas, cackling, tossing glances over their shoulders as I struggle to worm from my cozy couch bed.  A wave of nausea cuts me off, and, with a groan, I give up after them.  Snapping a few insults after them, I wiggle back into my cocoon, grumbling. 

“Get back here!” I shout.  “I wanna see what Marco’s posted!  Freckled bastard!”

 

* * *

 

After much scuffling, lunging, bickering, and thieving of the electronics, I finally find myself in possession of Connie’s iPhone.  The picture he posted of me isn’t that bad – true, I’m sleeping ungracefully with mussed hair and drool, which is totally not like me, but you can barely see any freckles.  It’s like someone just poked me in the face with a pen a couple of times. 

Which is probably exactly what happened. 

The comments, however, are slightly more dismal.

 

**corn_on_the_connie: so jean got really high and asked that we draw freckles on him so that he looks like marco lol**

**> >yaygurl_jeager: HAHAHAHA**

**> >yaygurl-jeager: WHO IS MARCO**

**> >mikasacrackerman: Poor Jean**

**> >bertholt_not_bert: @rbrauny wow we really got him drunk**

**> >rbrauny: im impresed good job jean**

**> >rbrauny: i think we all secretly want to be marco its ok**

**> >potato_girl: @hodt_bodty look what you’ve done**

**> >hodt_bodty: Oh my god, Jean**

**> >yaygurl_jeager: is that marco**

**> >rimymir: gr8 fuking job kirschtein u lightw8**

**> >kristain: @hodt_bodty oh poor jean are we going to make him come to work tomorrow?**

**> >hodt_bodty: @kristain We’d better not…  I’ll talk to Rico.  Tell Jean to take the day off :)**

**> >yaygurl_jeager: nooooo fire his ass**

**> >mikasacrackerman: Eren**

**> >yaygurl_jeager: mf has it coming**

 

“That’s not so bad,” I call out to Connie, scowling towards the sounds of him rifling through pots and pans in the kitchen. 

“Uh huh, sure,” he scoffs, chuckling.  “Go onto your own profile and then tell me that.”

Uncertain what could make Connie quite so smug yet equally calm, I do as he says with only the slightest spiral of dread in my gut. 

Marco selfies.  Just a few.  Not all _that_ many. 

The first is the smiling little fuck lying back on his bed, taking a picture with a downwards shot towards himself.  Most people’d have a huge, retarded chin, but somehow, Marco makes it work with bed hair and his twinkly brown eyes.  Actually, he looks quite handsome.  

 

**kirschteinjeans: Oh, hey, Jean, I forgot to give your phone back!  Sorry!  I’ll keep it safe until Monday!**

**> >yaygurl_jeager: who the fuck is that**

 

Following it is a picture of what I suppose was early this morning.  His face is squished against his pillow, creating those lovely bubble-cheeks he gets sometimes.  The leisurely, sleepy smile playing over his face is the type a photographer would die for.  He seems at ease, calm, contented, whatever, but also very, very happy.  If I'd gotten a picture of that smile for last semester's project, Professor Shadis would've been overjoyed.

 

**kirschteinjeans: Mmm, I don’t want to get up.  It’s so early!  Unfortunately, though, I need to do work at the stables since someone else can’t…**

**> >potato_girl: u guilt trip that boi fuck yeah**

**> >kristain: awwwwwwwww sleepy bodt**

**> >yaygurl_jeager: post some of his pics**

 

The next picture seems to be a bit of a response to that, with Marco sitting in the front of a car and dressed in a simple, holey summer-camp T-shirt that’s seen better days.  Was Marco ever a camp counselor?  I could totally see that.  He’d be the one all the little girls would have crushes on, with an effortless smile like that.  This particular shot allows a great view of the muscles down his arms.  Yeah, definitely the summer-crush counselor.  

 

**kirschteinjeans: I’m going to look through some of his photos on here, so here’s me BEFORE.**

**> >corn_on_the_connie: damn son those are uncharted territories **

**> >potato_girl: enter at your own risk freckles**

**> >bertholt_not_bert: you are braver than I**

**> >kirschteinjeans: OH GOD JEAN**

**> >yaygurl_jeager: lol what did u see**

 

My cheeks begin to burn.  I have a feeling I know which pictures Marco’s seen.  Perhaps the worst of my faults, I have a problem deleting old pictures on my phone… no matter what it may be that I'm taking pictures of.  If Marco finds a dick-pic...  My heart stutters fearfully.  I don't usually consider myself a man of faith, but now, I'm praying to every god I know.  

His next selfie only proves my fears.  A frail smile is on his face, a poor mask to cover his deep shock.  Those freckled cheeks seem to be coated in a sweaty sheen.  The disturbed emotion the camera catches in his eyes is something no man should have to endure.  

The dam of dread breaks, and something akin to relief cozies itself next to my heart, despite the knowledge that Marco's seen pictures of my wang.  A soft laugh escapes me.  I know I should be sinking into the floor with the mortification of it all, but, for some reason, that horrified smile combined with his eyes of terror just seem hilarious.  Poor innocent Marco. 

 

**kirschteinjeans: AFTER.  What has been seen… oh well, what’s past is past…? **…I hope **…******

**> >corn_on_the_connie: I wanna kno wats freakign him out**

**> >kirschteinjeans: You really don’t**

**> >rbrauny: who wans to bet that its jean wanking himself **

**> >yaygurl_jeager: ahaha i like u**

**> >kirschteinjeans: Oh be nice >:(**

 

Delaying only half a second to mull over my friend’s responses, I type another comment.  As hilarious as Marco’s reaction is, I don’t want to endure ridicule from everyone I know.

 

**> >corn_on_the_connie: god marco plz don’t post those pics –jean**

 

I dunno if that particular post was a bit far back for him, but the rest are all benign selfies or pictures taken across the yard.  Eren’s yelling at him to post my more intimate pictures in the comments on each one, but otherwise, they’re rather uneventful.  He tries to guilt-trip me a few times with pictures of jobs I’m supposed to be doing, but that cheesy, I’m-so-happy-you-don’t-even-understand Golden Retriever grin of his sort of ruins it. 

My favorite is a selfie with Marco and Devil Pony.  Marco wraps an arm around Levi’s little snout, rubbing his fingers between his nostrils, and grin up at the camera while the pony glares murderously towards him. 

“I’m gonna need that back, Jean!” Connie calls from the kitchen as he whirls around, banging cabinet doors open and shut in a rapid, staccato interval.  “Need to call Sasha…  Forgot to tell her we're not going to get the shipment of greens until tomorrow!” 

Grouchily, I glare at him from my swaddle of blankets.  “You’re not hung over.  Get your ass over here and get your own phone.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you whiny baby!” he calls.  “Just make sure you don’t drool all over the screen!  He’s hot, but Jesus, Jean, have some dignity!”

I consider throwing the phone at him, but decide that liking another one of Marco’s selfies is more important. 

 

* * *

 

Without my phone, I suffer. 

I’ll admit, I’ve never been that good of a student; I don’t know if the professors know just how much I text beneath the table and just don’t care, or if I’ve got them all swindled, but that’s how I spend a majority of my time.  There’s a certain thrill in taking a stealthy selfie, and then applying all sorts of layers to my face to make the severe angle not look so bad. 

I feel deprived, sitting in the rooms and watching old fogies jab white-board markers at diagrams.  In every other class besides Art Education, which I share with Bertholt, I have to suffer through without distraction. 

God bless Bertie, because they let me scroll through their Instagram feed all class long.  He’s probably going to report all my activities back to Reiner, but I care less about that than I do the class taking place around me.  I don’t even try to absorb knowledge – it’s about 90% useless to my future career, anyway.  I don’t even take art.  I just needed the credits. 

Marco keeps a steady stream of pictures coming for me to browse through – we chat a lot in the comments, too.  After about fifty selfies worth of apology-comments from me, we settle into a sort of rhythm, too; as it turns out, he had classes at UVA’s Darden Business school thing earlier this morning and on Saturday, too.  He took pictures of himself from beneath the desk like I always do – actually, it’s so much of a me-move that I wonder if he’d stolen the idea from some of my selfies. 

The boy seriously has a career in modelling, too.  Maybe he seems dorky and clumsy in real life, but even under the stupid, grainy lens of my iPhone, he looks like a Calvin Klein model.  Damn, if any photographers want him on their squad, they’ll have to go through me.  I tell him so on a selfie of him wearing a over-sized sweatshirt and beanie, grinning up at the camera with the UVA white-capped buildings in the background

 

**kirschteinjeans: I love this weather! :D Not freezing but still nice enough to get a few more uses out of my hats!**

**> >bertholt_not_bert: (its jean again) u rich fuck look u realize im calling dibs on ur modelling career**

**> >kirschteinjeans: This is assuming I'm going to become a model in the first place, Jean**

**> >bertholt_not_bert: if u dont become a model angels are srsly gonna start crying**

**> >corn_on_the_connie: be honest, r the angels gonna b crying or u jean**

**> >bertholt_not_bert: stay outta this baldie**

**> >kirschteinjeans: Are you on your break, Connie?  By the way, I meant to ask you the other day, what restaurant do you work at?**

**> >corn_on_the_connie: y u need a place 2 take ur boyfriend 2**

**> >bertholt_not_bert: ignore him. what class r u getting out of, bodt?**

**> >corn_on_the_connie: NO DONT IGNORE ME**

**> >kirschteinjeans: Um, some real advanced math course.  I actually forgot the name.  On my way back to the horses now!  I'll say hello to Levi for you!**

**> >bertholt_not_bert: tell that shitbag to go fuck himself for me**

**> >kirschteinjeans: Levi loves you and you know it**

**> >bertholt_not_bert: levi loves satan and you know it**

 

He posts another selfie, and I quickly scroll up to see it.  This time, it's Marco climbing into Reiner's car – his beanie is gone, leaving behind mussed hat-hair.  I think Reiner's wearing it in the background.  Marco's eyes are shut with his smile, a smile so broad it seems to take up most of his face.  His cheeks do that chubby-thing I love so much.  Smirking to myself, I save the picture to Bertholt's phone and send it to myself (it doesn't once occur to me that Marco's in possession of my phone).  

 

**kirschteinjeans: I've got to go in the car, and Reiner's got to do a project, so I'm driving!  That means no selfies for give or take an hour!  I hope you can survive until then!**

**> >bertholt_not_bert: (guess who) oh nooooooo what will the world do**

**> >corn_on_the_connie: be honest jean ur crying to urself**

**> >potato_gurl: when will his husband return**

**> >corn_on_the_connie: cue the western romance movie music**

**> >bertholt_not_bert: i know where both of u live**

 

Leaving the picture for good, I search through some of the older selfies for a few of my favorites to send to myself.  I scroll through the comments on a picture with Marco holding Batman by the reins, grinning at the camera whilst the horse gazes elsewhere.  Smiling at my somewhat pointed remarks about how the star on the horse’s face looks absolutely nothing like a bat, I chuckle slightly, earning me an elbow from Bertholt.

“At least try to pretend to pay attention,” he urges in a quiet, grinning whisper. 

“Not happening, bucko.”

I pause my scrolling at a favorite of mine – it’s actually not taken by Marco, but by Krista or Petra, I think.  The adorable freckled bastard is asleep in horse stall, passed out on a stool with his head braced against Polo’s shoulder, his mouth hanging open and his eyes just barely fluttered shut.  Upon his lap sits a half-finished worksheet, and a pen is about to fall from his hand.  It’s from Friday, but my heart still warms.  If only I’d been there to see it. 

 _Dammit, Marco_ , I curse silently, glaring down at the screen, _you need to stop being so adorable so I can just focus_.  _First work, now school…  Dammit, Bodt._

 

* * *

 

“Oi, Ymir!” 

Her ever-present scowl dips down a little further down – leaning forward on the saddle she’s adjusting, Ymir cocks one eyebrow deliberately, oozing boredom.  “What is it, you dick?”

My scowl rivals even the likes of hers.  “You know where Bodt is?  He’s got my phone, and I've looked everywhere.”

“No, I don’t.”  Ymir cocks an eyebrow, glowering at me intimidatingly.  “How badly do you want that phone, dick?  What are you willing to pay?”

I shift uncomfortably.  Unfortunately, I’m quite familiar with Ymir’s payment systems – “food for favors” seems to be a motto of hers.  I’ve got a granola bar in my pocket, and that could be a useful bargaining chip, but it’s also my only lunch.  “You’re sure you don’t know where Marco is?”

Ymir snorts.  “You’ve not been around for long, but, Jesus, Jean, you should know that when Marco is off with his horses, he’s nearly impossible to find.  Could be anywhere.  I’ve got a way to get him to come to you, if you’re interested.”

“Fine.”  Grouchily, I fish the granola bar from my pocket.  “Take it.  It’s all I have.”

“All I need.”  Setting the saddle on the bench and striding towards an old, dusty intercom system, Ymir snatches the bar from me and yanks off the wrapping in one smooth movement.  “He’ll meet you outside in five, fifteen minutes?  Depends on where he is.”

“Wait, are you just going to call him up?”  I make an unpleasant noise in the back of my throat.  “Bitch, that’s my lunch I just gave you.”

Ymir shoots me the bird.  “This thing broke ages ago.  Now, it can only” – she hovers her finger over the only button that looks vaguely used, with a glossy black surface devoid of dust – “do this, and it’s only for Marco.” 

Grinning, she slams down on the button. 

Outside, Whitney Houston belts with the volume of a thunderclap. 

“ _AND IIIIIIIIII-_ IIII- _IIII WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOOOOUUUUUUUUU –"_

“The fuck!” I snap, stumbling backwards into a rack of saddles.  My heart hammers.  “What the fuck?  Ymir, what the hell did you –” 

“Chill out, pretty boy.”  Ymir crosses her arms over her chest, glaring at me with a twisted sneer, inciting a boil of anger to simmer in my stomach.  “The horses won’t bolt or anything.  They’re used to it.”

“Still –” I shake my head, listening to the ridiculously loud Whitney singing her lungs out over the lawn.  “The fuck does that have to do with getting Marco?”

“He’s been hanging around the barn a lot since you came, so it makes sense you wouldn’t know, I guess.”  Ymir harrumphs, taking another bite of my granola bar.  “Hmph.  Newb.  These speakers are mostly broken, really old – there’s a different system hooked up in Stable Rose that we use for announcements now.  Goddamn, though, are these ones loud.  You can hear them in the furthest corners of West Trost Acres – that’s why we use it to call Marco.”

“But – why – ?”

“Why this chick song?”  Ymir smiles devilishly.  “Because Marco broke the intercom system back when this thing first came out.  Trying to play it while he was doing a routine, I think.  The CD got stuck and you can’t turn the volume dials anymore.  It’s just sort of, y’know, accepted as Marco’s thing.  Dunno who started it.  Probably Reiner.”

I scratch at the back of my neck.  “Yeah, probably.  Are you sure that’s alright?  I don’t want to get fired because of something you did.”

Ymir waves my half-eaten bar around in the air.  “’S fine.  Surprised that I managed to get this off ya, though.  Thought you’d tell me to fuck off and jam the button yourself.” 

I feel myself getting red with anger.  “Give that back.  You’re starving me.”

“Ain’t happening.”  She takes another bite, glaring me in the eye, just daring me to take it.  I refrain myself – if blasting chick songs won’t get me fired, then fighting with her certainly _will_.  “O’ course, you can’t do it on days when we’re in uniform.  You lucky bastard missed out on Friday – fox hunts.”  She shudders.  “A bunch of pompous misogynists in dapper suits – I’m telling you, Marco is from an entirely different world as them.”

“I can believe it,” I agree.  I picture Marco in a fancy English jacket, like the ones on my sister’s Pride and Prejudice marathons, and my stomach pangs – damn, Marco’s going to have to model that for me and my camera sometime. 

Apparently, I spend a little bit more time than I should daydreaming about perfect-Marco-shots, because Ymir groans in boredom and waves her hand towards the door.  “Get out.  Right now.  I can see the yaoi you’re envisioning with you and freckles on your face, so get out.”

“Yaoi?”  Furrowing my brow, I stare dumbly at her.  “The fuck is –“

“Out!”  Ymir picks up a bristly horse-brush and threatens to throw it.  “I need my zen when I’m cleaning rich kid’s saddles!”

“Bitch,” I mutter, but, for some reason, I can’t help but smile, even as she slams the door to the tack room door behind me.  Maybe it’s got something to do with Whitney Houston and her lovely voice as it echoes off the mountains – yeah, probably.  This song, that story – it’s all very _Marco_. 

Precious little Marco.  A happy little ball of freckles and smiles and sunshine.  More puppy than man. 

Dammit, he better have my phone. 

“Oh, hey, Jean, were you the one that wanted my attention?”

I curse and jump fifty feet in the air.  Wheeling around, I catch sight of Marco striding down the stable corridor towards me, his face lifted in a smile, eyes glittering kindly in the low light. 

“M-Marco!”  My cheeks flush bright red.  “Uh, h-hey –”

“I didn’t know you were in the loop about my special system.”  His eyelashes bat against his cheek as he blinks, seemingly lost in thought for a second.  “Unless someone showed you how?  Ymir should be in there working on saddles, right?”

I shrug.  “Bitch took my lunch so that I could find you.”

“Oh.”  Guilt crumples Marco’s smile.  “Well, I’ll just have to share my lunch with you.”

“That is one hundred percent okay with me.”

“Settled, then, we’re splitting a PB&J.  By the way, I have your phone.”  He grins sheepishly, glancing at me through his eyelashes.  “I took the liberty of adding my number, if that’s okay.”

I snort, stifling a chuckle.  “That’s not all you took the liberty to do.”

“Well…”  Marco blushes like a schoolgirl, shifting his weight shyly.  “I deleted some of your, um, more _provocative_ photos in case Reiner got ahold of the phone.  I hope you don’t mind that I posted stuff on your Instagram.  It was so tempting, especially since the only thing you have on there is hipster edits.”

“’S fine, Marco.”  I shrug.  “If Reiner’d gotten ahold of it, I have a feeling I’d be hating life.  Listen, man… sorry about that.  I didn’t… look, I know I suck when I’m drunk, so, like, thanks for not dumping my ass on some streetcorner.”

“You didn’t suck, actually.”  Marco smirks.  “Maybe you were a little clingy and smiley, but you’re nothing compared to Reiner.  It’s nice, not being around an angry-drunk.”

“Yeah, well.”  Again, I find myself shrugging.  “I usually am an angry-drunk.  You must have some effect on me.  Or maybe I’m under your spell.”

“I’m just bewitching, aren’t I?”  Marco cocks an eyebrow, grinning down at me with a dark, teasing simper.  Suddenly, he blanches, face going pale.  “I mean, um, here, have your phone back, sorry, er –”

Blushing perhaps the reddest I’ve ever seen him, he shoves the phone towards me, then focuses on the toes of his boots. 

“Sorry, I’m – ah, a bit jittery today.  Either had too much or not enough coffee, I think.”

“That’s cool, man.” 

I take the phone from him, sliding it unlocked and scrolling through my pictures – after all, I’ve given up trying to understand the daily life of Marco Bodt, he’s too damn complex, but he’s also really _not_ , and it screws with my brain.  Marco Bodt seems like the kind of man you could stamp one word onto and describe perfectly, like "nice" – in reality, it's more than that, so much more.  Marco has hidden undertones and little quirks that just can't be capped with "nice," and that's why he's so frustrating, so intriguing.  I _can’t_ understand why he sits there awkwardly, shifting uncomfortably like he’s trying to hide a boner or something, when just a moment ago he was _fine_. 

“You’re going to delete all of the photos I took, aren’t you?”  Marco grins, that smile holding an apology for his bizarre behavior, and tilts his head to one side.  “Why?  My selfies not hipster enough for you?”

I snort.  “I think I might save this one, actually.  What the fuck are you doing here?”  I hold the phone out towards him.  “Falling off a horse?”

His eyes widen with recognition.  He silences, but not in the awkward, faux-pas way he had earlier – this time, it’s embarrassment.  Marco’s ears go red.  In a strained tone of voice, he mumbles that he thought he’d deleted all of those. 

“Oh my God, Marco.”  Groaning, I lean my head back, slamming my palm against my brow.  “Tell me you didn’t fall off a horse because you were trying to take a selfie.”

“I can’t say anything.”  He buries his face in one hand.  “I am a failure.  I cannot take horse selfies without everything going terribly wrong.”

“Marco, you are a clumsy ball of adorable,” I chastise, beckoning him after me as I begin to stride down the Levi’s stall to take the little bastard out to Petra.  “Don’t you ever try that ever again, because you will break your neck and have to explain yourself to the doctors.  Or, worse, _I’ll_ have to explain what a jackass you were being.”

“Poor you.”  Marco grins, following me.  “I must be so much of an embarrassment to you, Jean, how would you survive?” 

“I would totally be so depressed with humanity if you died because of that selfie,” I grunt, shaking my head.  “Like, I’d be so disappointed in you I wouldn’t even attend the funeral.  I’d lie in bed and think about how much I fucking hate the world.”

“Awww, well, aren’t you a little gumdrop.”  His grin is impossible to damage, and the crinkle in the corners of his eyes is – hey. 

“What’s that?”  My hand jerks forward to turn his head for him so I can get a better look at it, but it stops halfway, hanging awkwardly between us.  “Fuck, Marco, the hell is that?” 

“Oh…”  Coyly, he moves a hand to cover the bruise mottling up from his cheekbone to the corner of his eye, hidden conveniently by the shadows of the stable.  “Um, I, um, ran into a shelf yesterday.  It hurt like hell.  I guess it bruised…?”

Okay, that’s just _oozing_ with lies.  If anything, that bruise looks like it was inflicted by a fist, not a shelf.  But why would Marco lie to me?  Why would he…?

I freeze, and a lump forms in my throat. 

“Marco, I didn’t hit you while I was drunk, did I?”

Gasping, he shakes his head vigorously, blinking in his typical doe-like fashion with his big, brown eyes.  “No!  No, no, _no_ , Jean!”  His horror at the possibility melts the ball of dread in my stomach.  “No, you were an adorable drunk, like I said – you just wanted to cuddle and drink.  No, nothing like… like that.”

“How’d you get it, then?” I demand, not entirely satisfied. 

“I… um… fell off the horse?” 

Oh my God, what a lie.  _I can see right through you, Marco Bodt._

“Yeah, I fell off the horse.”  He looks quite pleased with himself and that dumbass excuse, relief dousing the fires of alarm in his gaze.  “You know, taking the selfie?  I, um, hit a rock on my way down.  It hurt.  A lot.” 

I shoot him one of the darkest glares I have in my arsenal.  “Freckles, do you honestly expect me to believe any word out of your fucking mouth just now?”

Marco deflates a little bit, his smile faltering and pulling downwards.  Misery replaces the poorly veiled hope in his eyes.  “No… not really.  I just – I – it’s – I don’t want to talk about it, Jean.  Is that okay?”

“Of course, buddy.”  I elbow him, shaking my head with my scowl.  “Jesus, man, we’ve all got stuff we don’t wanna talk about, alright?  Just don’t feed me bullshit like I’m some preschooler.”

“I – I –”  Marco’s shoulders droop, his smile crumbling to pieces.  “I’m sorry, Jean.  I’m having a bit of a rough time.  I would tell you the truth, but…”

It’s as if he’d gone in and wrenched my heart from my chest, only to give it warm cuddles.  My breath hitches.  I know the hidden pain in his eyes far too well to consider reacting with anything akin to urgency.  

“No, Marco, c’mon, man.”  I bump my shoulder against his, capturing those brown eyes in my gaze – he seems uncertain initially, but relaxes, his pupils dilating as he does so.  “Look, you can handle yourself, and you’ve got your own business.  I get that.  I respect that.  But don’t try to lie to me – be proud of your battle wounds.”

His brown eyes rove over my face.  It's a face I know well from experience – Marco Bodt is trying to figure out whether or not I'm trustworthy.  I hold my breath and await his judgment, keenly aware of every movement in the room.  The rise and fall of Marco's shoulders.  The flit of his eyes as they dance from my gaze to the stables around us.  The fiddle of his fingers with a button.  Our breaths, mixing in the air.  

Finally, Marco moves.  The corners of his lips begin to lift again, and, as his eyes light up with his smile, I realize I've earned Marco Bodt’s trust.  It shouldn't feel as much of an accomplishment as it does – a gregarious man like Marco surely trusts many, right?  

If that's right, then why does everyone else seem to brand him as just "nice"?

“Thanks, Jean.”  Marco beams at me, and, I gotta admit, it’s nice to receive a grateful smile for once.  “Nice to know someone beside me is looking out for somebody else.  Even if it is to make sure that I can’t sue their ass about a fistfight.”

“Hey, now,” I warn, clubbing a finger at him as I slip into Levi’s stall.  “I was worried about you, Bodt, you don’t seem like the type that’d be throwing fists.  Totally cool if that’s what you’re into, by the way.  That said, don’t be getting into street-fights, rich boy.  They’re nothing like your ritzy little walks in the park.”

“Sure thing, Mom.”  Despite his light, joking tone, Marco seems deeply relieved.  “Why?  You think I couldn’t handle myself in a street-fight?”

I shake my head, my scowl twisting up into a smirk.  “Nah.  I can’t use you as a model if you’re all banged up.  If you’re going to brawl it out, call me – we can better the odds.”

“Hmm.”  His smile is beautiful, even though the happy crinkle around his bruised eye looks painful.  “Well, Jean, it good to know you’ve got my back.  Listen, I’ve got to – I’ve got to do something, alright?  Do you – do you have Levi covered?”

“Yeah, man, we’re good here.”  In an attempt to stall Marco’s departure, I add, “Wish you’d tell me how you get him to do what you want, though.”

“Oh, it’s quite simple, actually.”  Marco leans on the gate, smiling at me over it as I maneuver myself around the irritable Devil Pony.  “I suppose I can wait until you’re done with that, then show you.”

Ignoring the leap of my heart, I shoot a sideways grin towards him, delighted with the thought that I won’t be alone with Devil Pony quite yet.  “Oh, yeah?  So far, I’ve had Petra and Christa try to lead this fuckface around with me, and, apparently, horses hate me.”

“No, they don’t,” Marco chides automatically, rolling his eyes.  “And neither Petra nor Christa have the magic touch with Levi.  I’ll show you how it’s done if –”

“ _AND IIIIIIIIII-_ IIII- _IIII WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOOOOUUUUUUUUU –_ ”

“Oh.”  Marco blinks up towards the ceiling, frowning.  “That’s my beckon.  Sorry, Jean, I gotta go.  Hopefully, I’ll be able to come back soon, though, right?”

Pulling Levi’s tail brush from the grooming bucket, I shrug, pursing my lips.  “Whatever, man.  There’s plenty of time left for me to master the secrets of this tiny bastard.”

With a shrill whinny, Levi tosses his head several times, snorting furiously. 

“Oh, calm down, you.”  Marco leans over the gate and kisses Levi on the forehead, and, for some reason, the horse doesn’t bite his head off the moment the freckled kid leans back.  “Drama queen.  By the way, Jean, you never did show me the photos you chose for your Polo Picture Portfolio Project.  Lemme see them sometime, okay?”

“Okay.”  Fake and plastered over my face, my smile grows tight.  “Yeah.  Sure.  Take care, Freckles.”

“See you, Jean.”

I watch him stride down towards the tack room – my mind is so preoccupied with my thoughts that I don’t notice the way his blush grows darker and darker the further away he gets, the glances he casts back at me, and the way he runs his hands nervously through his hair.  Instead, all I can think about is that I hadn’t chosen a Polo picture at all for the project. 

Instead, I’d chosen a picture of the sunlight going through Marco’s eyelashes, with only a sliver of his warm, brown eye twinkling. 

It’d been perfect, but now, I realize that it’s also _really, really_ gay-looking. 

Especially after I made out with him in a bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys, hope you enjoyed the chapter! I just wanted to say that I appreciate all of you readers, all those I never hear from - a comment from last chapter has prompted me to extend an invitation to go ahead and comment. I want to get to know you guys!
> 
> ...Also, I really could use some help with those horse names...


	6. Wire-bits and Adorable Little Shits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ickle baby Marco... awwww... my baby...

**One (1) new message**

 

“Marco Bodt,” his profile reads.  “Marco Bodt.”  Smirking, I move to correct that, typing a much more accurate contact name for Freckles. 

**From: My Future Model >>Hey, Jean, do you think you can come in early tomorrow?  Rico wants me to tell you that she needs someone to cover for Krista.  **

 

I smile down at the phone – this makeshift bed of mine, a beanbag and a few pillows in the corner of the living room, has very few pluses.  Maybe Marco can add a little something to the bleak and work his way into my bedtime routine – _okay, no, stopping that train of thought._   It sounds so dirty I can’t even think about it. 

Besides, it’s… Marco.  Little old Marco. 

 

 **To: My Future Model: >>Ummmm that depends **  
**> >Hoe early you want me in  
** **> >*how**

I hardly have the time to throw my phone down before he responds. 

 

 **From: My Future Model >>She said around 5…?  
** **> >I can probably cover for Krista if you’re busy, you said school was picking up, didn’t you?**

**To: My Future Model >>no u dummy its my job**  
 **> >goddammit 5 is so fucking early  
** **> >*sighs* I better get to sleep soon**

I throw my phone down, curling up in my beanbag.  You’d think that sleeping in a comfy, poufy nest would be nice, but it’s not.  Fucking hate it here on the ground – fetal position is not my shit, even with my swamping of covers and pillows. 

My phone buzzes a few times with responses from Marco.  I reach out and grab my phone blindly.  Pulling it with me, I bury myself entirely beneath the blankets – if someone flicked on all the lights outside, I wouldn’t be able to tell inside of my little blanket-cave.  Propping myself up on one elbow, I poke at the screen with a single finger. 

 

 **From: My Future Model >>Really, Jean, it’s no biggie for me to spend another day with horses.**  
 **> >You should know by now I will take any excuse.   
** **> >But you will be getting Krista’s pay, so I won’t step in and steal it from you unless you’re sure. **

**To: My Future Model >>I need the $ man ill take the job**

**From: My Future Model >>You’d better get to sleep then**  
 **> >I can sing you to sleep**  
 **> >Gooo to sleeeeeeep**  
 **> >Goo to sleeeeeeep  
** **> >Goooo to sleep wittle Jon-Bon**

**To: My Future Model >>marco no**

**From: My Future Model >>Gooo to sleeeeep**  
 **> >Gooo to sleeeeep  
** **> >Gooooo to sleee-eeep Jon-Boon**

**To: My Future Model >>I will find u and wring ur neck**

**From: My Future Model >>Hahaha I don’t know the rest of the words, so you’re in the clear ;)  
** **> >But seriously, get some sleep.  If you need to change last minute, call me, because beyond a certain o’clock, I don’t get up unless Whitney Houston is wailing in my ear. **

Snorting, I realize he’s probably got that chick-song for a ringtone, too.  God, what a dweeb.  Nestling deeper into my beanbag-bed, I follow his advice, sinking into the warmth.  You never seem to notice how tired you are until sleep’s wrapped her soft arms around you – I’m fucking exhausted, and struggling to keep my eyes open.

**To: My Future Model >>wouldn’t do that to you, freckles**  
 **> >u coming tomorrow  
** **> >dont wanna be with the horses alone**

His response is immediate, as if he hadn’t even batted an eye thinking of an answer. 

**From: My Future Model >>I’ll always be there, Jean, you don’t even need to ask.  And don’t worry about the horses.  I’ll take care of them.   
** **> >Now get to sleep, Jean, or I’ll drug you. **

For some reason, I laugh myself silly at that.  Maybe it's the image of Marco crawling up the side of our building and stuffing pills down my throat.  

My phone buzzes a few more times against my chest, presumably with messages of goodnight from Marco – maybe even another few stanzas of a lullaby – but I don’t pay any heed to that.  As Marco’s messages shiver against my heart, I close my eyes, drowning in warmth, and fall asleep. 

 

* * *

 

For a little while, life sinks into a simple, happy dull. 

Not that it’s a bad thing.  Hell, I love the mundane routine, because it means I get to let my mind wander a bit more at work.  Boring routine is even better.  But nothing particularly interesting happens for a few weeks, and bitter March rain trickles into sunnier April weather. 

Connie and Sasha do get a bit irritated with me, but it’s nothing more than a typical roommate irritation.  After all, it’s not my fault they’re not around to babysit me in their house – and they should be lucky that I don’t ditch my horse-clothes in their washer while they’re working at the restaurant.  Just because Marco offered me the washing machines at the House on the Hill doesn’t mean I can’t get revenge. 

Oh, yeah, that’s another thing.  After apparently hearing a drunken tirade about the inconvenience of our washing machines, freckled bastard pulled some strings with upper-management (more like he hypnotized them with a goofy smile) and let me use the washing machines up there.  I will forever be in that freckled doofus’s debt, it seems. 

It helps me to adjust, too, which is kind of incredible, considering my caustic personality.  I even grow increasingly comfortable around even the largest of the ponies – I mean, it’s hard to continue to fear the little horses of Stable Maria when they’re shaggy, grouchy little animals standing in piles of their own shit.  Clients, exercisers, and fellow stablehands begin calling me by name.  A few horses model for me, though they’re not the slightest bit aware of it. 

As the sun simmers with more and more ferocity each day, Marco starts wearing holey T-shirts instead of prim and proper English riding gear.  That’s certainly interesting.

He also models for me, but he’s not the slightest bit aware of it, either. 

If I’d remembered to bring my camera, today would’ve been an excellent day for some creepy practice-shots.  His hair had been fixed up neatly earlier this morning, but the moment his helmet had gone on, it’d grown as mussed and fuzzy as it always is.  His baby-blue button-down shirt is rolled up to his elbows, and his jeans are old, frayed, and torn, but with riding boots sheathing his calves – he looks absolutely adorable. 

Marco lifts his head, turning toward me with his huge, curious eyes.  _Shit, shit, shit, shit._ He caught me staring. 

Hurriedly, I look away, busying myself in playing with the halter of Dixie, who’s waiting for Petra to appear and lead-line her.  Gritting my teeth, I curse myself for letting these damn photographer eyes wander. 

Ever since that night I got drunk and apparently locked lips with Marco, we’ve been getting these – these _moments_.  All of the sudden when we’re talking and I say something, he’ll randomly act awkward and scamper off.  It doesn’t happen often, not often at all, but when it does, I’m fucking flooded with guilt. 

Marco tears my boundaries down.  I don’t know why.  I haven’t quite figured it out yet.  But, as opposed to being _brutally_ frank to the point of being cruel, I open up around him whenever he smiles at me.  I don’t have much of a filter on a good day, but any whims of self-control fly out the window.  And then I’ll blurt out something a little too personal or a little too honest, and he’ll blush beet red and stammer and end the conversation.  That’s been my primary bane as of recently. 

Other than, you know, having to work with volatile, grumpy beasts with hooves the size of sledgehammers.

“Something wrong, Jean?”  Wrenching me from my thoughts, Marco swings easily over the fence.  He strides towards me in a storm of dust, eyes hazed with concern and warmth. 

“Nah, why would it be?” I wonder, cocking an eyebrow and matching his frown. 

“Oh.”  He shrugs, sidling up and resting a hand on Dixie’s neck beside me.  “Just thought you looked troubled for a moment.  Sorry I didn’t say hey right away – my usual spot for a little mental-break was, um, confiscated by Reiner and Bertholt.”

I grin towards Stable Sina – Marco likes to take quiet breaks in Polo’s stall to unwind.  “Let them get it on, man.  It’s cool, though.  If you’re sitting around in the sun, well… I’m cool with you sitting over there in silence, but take off your shirt, because a farmer’s tan would ruin your princely model appeal.”

Marco freezes, glancing downwards, blushing. 

Fucking did it again.  “Um, I mean –”

“It’s really cute of you, thinking of me like a model,” Marco breaks in, only a whisper of his embarrassment still haunting his gaze.  “Unfortunately for you, though, I’m not one, and I’m going to get that farmer’s tan.”  Working a tense smile to diffuse the situation, Marco leans back against the fence, still seeming marginally uncomfortable.  “If you want me to model for you, you’re going to have to try a little harder than that.”

“Playing hard to get, are you?”  I smirk at him.  “Well, we just started our unit on nude photography, so maybe I should drop the subject for a bit… or maybe not.  How comfortable are you in front of a lens, Freckles?”

His eyes widen, and I wonder for a second if I’d just gone and blown it again, seconds after having a frail revival of the conversation, but Bodt pulls through again.  “Pretty damn comfortable, so long as I know the photographer.  But I’m not sure I want to be that kind of exhibitionist.”

“Come on, Marco,” I tease, grinning up at him. “It’s not exhibitionism if the only ones who ever sees you is me.”

“You and everyone else that sees those photos.”

“I’d keep them to myself.”  I wink at him.  “Very confidential matters.  Your dick pics would be safe with me.”

Chuckling, Marco cuffs my shoulder gently, his blow like the bat of a kitten’s paw.  “Shut up, Jean, I’m not going to be your nude model.”

I pout at him.  “No matter how much I might want sexy pictures of naked Marco?”

A sharp inhale of breath, a glance away, the familiar spread of a blush on his cheeks.  I shove my hands in my pockets and stare at my feet.

What infuriates me is that I can’t tell what sets him off.  As far as I can tell, there’s been nothing but similar banter throughout our conversation – what is it that offends him or whatever?  Why is Marco Bodt so frustrating to hang out with? 

Though I’m not sure why he’s acting weird all of the sudden, I jump to apologize.  “Look, Marco, man, I’m sorry, I didn’t –“

“No, it’s okay.”  His smile doesn’t seem all that okay.  “Sorry, it’s just – sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I say awkwardly.  “And I’m – I’m sorry too.”  Hastily, I chase after a different subject, eager to change the focus of the conversation.  “So, is Reiner going to put on any different show for his baby boo, or is he just going to do the usual exercises?”

“Good question.”  Marco shrugs, slipping into the new topic with ease.  “Knowing Reiner?  He’s probably going to be the real show pony.  So, I’d say he’s got something or another planned.”

“Bertholt is so proud that his boyfriend is a winning jumper, you wouldn’t even believe.”  I shake my head, staring out towards the corral he’d order to be swept and maintained.  “Actually, Bertholt is just obsessed with Reiner in general.  It’s really fucking weird, now that I think about it.  What’s Reiner think of him?”

“He’s not a sex toy, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Marco says, his gaze honeyed with admiration – I realize after a moment that admiration is directed towards me, and confusion replaces the relief provided by normal conversation. 

“Then, um, what is he?” I stutter

“A boyfriend.”  Marco’s brow puckers as he frowns, and he stares elsewhere, giving me cause to relax.  “Funny, I don’t think Reiner’s actually had a real boyfriend before.  Boy toys, for sure.  But you should see him.”

“Why?”  I crack a wry smile.  “Bertholt make his manhood tingle?”

Marco snorts, shaking his head.  A few strands of his hair fall into his face, hiding a few of his freckles.  “Whenever he’s out of under the public’s eye, he’s an adorable human being.  A little lewd, of course, but adorable.  Far as I can tell, he cares for Bertholt.  If it was anything except that, I’d probably give poor Bertholt a bit of warning – and I will, if I detect any differences in the Reiner personality scope.”

“Jesus, what are you, that guy’s mom?”  I shift my weight, smiling towards him as he stares out at the exercising rings.  “How’d you and Reiner meet, by the way?”

“Competition, actually.”  Marco shrugs.  “Reiner and I were in the same class, and I remember being mad that he got first and I got third.  Once we got talking, I found out he needed a new place to board his horse because his old stable burned down.  I advised this place to him.  We’ve been thick as thieves since fifteen.”

I blanch, thinking only of poor, innocent Marco with a horny Reiner.  “Yikes, what was fifteen-year-old, sexuality-finding Reiner like?”

“Knew he was gay since he was a kid, actually,” Marco corrects, smiling.  “I think that was what drew me towards him.  His stability.  I could trust him, no matter what.  If I told him about something, he’d tease me about it, of course, but if he heard anyone else teasing me, he’d beat the crap out of them.  He’s a good friend to have.”

“Poor ickle Marco,” I sigh, resisting the urge to tousle his hair.  “Needs Brawny Braun to pull him out of trouble.  Bet you couldn’t land a blow without apologizing back in high school.”

“You’re probably right,” Marco says ruefully.  “I’m not really one to cause conflict, even now.” 

“Aww, Marco, that’s alright.”  I club him gently, grinning.  “You’re just a big, fluffy-wuffy puppy dog, aren’t you?”

Marco laughs heartily, and turns towards me.  His smile is so dazzlingly perfect I lose my breath.  Lust pangs in my stomach, a deep longing for my camera for that shot.  My heart stutters pathetically in my chest with the beauty of Marco. 

“Is that what you see me as?”  The freckled bastard tilts his head to one side, still beaming.  “A dog?”

“Mmhmm.”  I distract myself stroking Dixie’s nose, praying that Marco hadn’t permanently impaired my sense of speech.  “Benji or something.  Timmy’s stuck in a well.”

Marco scoffs softly.  “I see how it is.  …It’s the eyes, isn’t it?  The puppy-dog eyes?”

“Yeah, definitely.”

Mumbling a curse beneath his breath, Marco shakes his head, turning his gaze up to the sun as it dapples between the leaves of the overhanging oak tree.  “Damn these eyes.  No one takes you seriously when you look like Bambi.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I scold.  “You’re adorable.  Look, we can ask Reiner’s opinion – finally stopped making out with Bertholt, see?”

Marco follows my pointed finger with his gaze, calm as can be.  “Oh, look at him, that show pony.  All geared up, ain’t he?  Polished everything to a fine.”

“I don’t envy Ymir,” I admit, arching a brow at the almost surreally shiny gloss of Grimm’s coppery-red-and-white coat, looking almost like the rippling muscles and tendons that are supposed to be beneath his skin.  “Jesus, she probably had to scrub at that horse.  And avoid getting bitten.  The thing is a goddamn nightmare, in and out of the ring.”

“Reiner likes it, though, and I guess that’s all that matters.” 

“What’s it doing with its bit?” I ask.  “Little weird, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, well, horses like to chew the bit in different –“  He cuts off sharply, a frown creasing his figures, slowly growing more and more unpleasant with each new observation he makes.  “Look at that.  Look at the way Grimm’s fighting him.  It keeps trying to roll the bit on its tongue.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“No, but look harder,” Marco insists.  “The only resistance Reiner is meeting is when he pulls back on the reins or steers Grimm.  If he’s just walking forward, Grimm is perfectly fine – he doesn’t care.  But the moment Reiner’s hand touches the rein, he freaks out a little bit, bucking his head, rolling his tongue.” 

“Okay… yeah, I see what you’re talking about.  What does that mean?”

“Then look at the way it tries to roll its tongue.”  Impatiently, he shakes his head, his ire slowly building.  “It’ll probably be near impossible for you to notice, but I’ve seen it before.  He’s trying to use his tongue to lift the bit off a sore part in his mouth, pushing it forward to places where the bit wouldn’t usually rest in his mouth – he only protests when Reiner rubs the bit on the inside of his tongue.  It’s not just pulling at the lips that matters, but also when he was mounting and the bit was pulled sideways through it.  I know that reaction.”

“What are you saying, Marco?”

“I’ve only see one other horse do that.”  His tone is cold, and his face is black with anger.  “No way.  _No way_.”

Slightly frightened of the fury underlying every word of Marco’s, I ask quietly, “What is it?”

“A twisted wire bit.”  Marco rakes a hand through his hair, a snarl pulling at his lips.  _Now is not a time to be looking at his lips._ “Probably with double snaffles.  Goddammit, I know he’s trying to impress Bertholt but – _you idiot!_ ”

“Twisted wire bit?”

“Picture two thin twizzlers strewn through your mouth, except with pinchers at the middle and razor sharp sides.”  His words seem to only make him more livid.  “As if that isn’t enough, the bit has a tendency to permanently damage the tongue section caught between the two bars.  That is exactly what I stand against.”

“…What you stand against?”  I furrow my brow at him. 

“That’s straight-out animal cruelty,” Marco sneers.  His eyes sparkle with malice.  “I can’t believe he would do that!  Poor Grimm!”

“How long has he been doing that?” I ask, watching the horse chew and toss his head as Reiner navigates it forcefully towards the gate.  “I mean, using that bit?”

“Probably a while,” Marco fumes, waves of ire rolling off of him.  “The abrasion against the tongue seems severe, and Grimm’s been having unusual behavior issues for months.  _Dammit_.”

“So, what do we do?” I wonder.  “Stand back and wait?” 

Marco huffs.  Fury still gleams in his eyes, and, to my bewilderment, a small, injured twinkle of betrayal.  He hurls his weight against the fence, upper lip curling, and shoves his fists into his elbows.  Every muscle in his body is on edge, as taut as a bowstring. 

“Hey, Marco –“  Gently, I land a hand on his shoulder, uncertain whether or not this is the correct path to avoid an embarrassed blush.  “Dude, remain calm.  That sounds really fucking awful, but we can’t humiliate Reiner just yet.”

He stares off grouchily into the distance for a few moments without responding.  I rub my thumb into the tense shoulder muscles to get him to calm down.  I don’t like seeing Marco angry at all – it feels like I’m looking at a grounded angel. 

Eventually, he sighs, relaxing beneath my thumb.  “Sorry, Jean,” he says quietly, locking our gazes together.  “I guess I’m just upset I haven’t noticed it before now.”  Miserably, Marco looks down at his feet.  “It’s wrong to blame Reiner – he probably doesn’t even know what he’s doing.”

“Probably not,” I agree, my voice taking on a foreign, soothing tone.  “It’s alright, man.  Listen, do you want me to prepare him a bridle with a mullen-mouth bit?”

Marco shakes his head slowly.  “No, no… it’s okay, I’ll handle that.  Thanks for noticing that, Jean.  I would’ve thought nothing of it.  It was just a weird quirk of Grimm’s… or something…”

“It’s alright, man, no one’s going to blame you.  Least of all the fucking horse.”  I let my hand slip down until it rests at his forearm, giving him one last squeeze.  “Where have you seen that bit before, Marco?  Why’d it make you so mad?”

He shifts his weight.  “It was at one of Reiner’s competitions, actually, and I was there to support him.  That’s what makes it so unbelievable.  The horse was being ridden mercilessly with one of those bits, and I guess it got fed up, because it lost its temper and stampeded around the ring.  Rider couldn’t calm it down.  No one could calm it down.  It ended up cracking most of the poles on the jumps and actually fatally impaled itself on a splinter.  The rider was thrown off and could never walk again because of the injuries he suffered.”

 “…That sucks.”

“It really did,” Marco agrees, nodding.  “I hated seeing the poor horse like that.  It was… so scared.”  His eyes swim with emotion.  “It had been dealing with that cruel bit in its mouth all its life, practically, boring a bigger and bigger hole into it.  Finally, it got fed up, and refused to allow the bit to contain him, but… even though he probably felt free in those last few moments, he was probably scared and sick and lost and sad.  Poor horse.”

The maudlin emotion, I notice, is more than what even Marco Bodt would give to a horse he had never met.  Ghosts of his past flicker alongside his fury with the future.  His weakness is bared to me like a little piece of his soul, vulnerable and poignant.  I can’t help but wonder if maybe there’s another reason that Marco hates the bit – or at least, the metaphorical value of the bit.  

“Poor horse,” I end up agreeing lamely. 

Marco sighs heavily.  “I’m sorry, I’ve lost you, my bad.  I get passionate about this sort of stuff, sorry…”

“It’s fine, Freckles, I like hearing you talk passionately.”  I flash him a smile.  “Makes you seem more human and less like an otherworldly, innocent angel.  By the way, Bodt, you’re an amazing person.  And a fucking adorable one.”

This time, I feel a pang of satisfaction at Marco’s blush – he seems pleased and flustered instead of humiliated, so, hey, progress. 

“Thank you, Jean.”  Marco’s voice is soft, almost like he’s paying me a dear compliment.  “You’re adorable as hell, too, you know.”

“Hmm, I guess we’re both adorable.”  I shrug, pursing my lips.  “I dunno what to do about that.   Although I gotta admit, you’re the first to ever call me something other than asshole.  ‘Adorable’ is not usually in my range of descriptions.”

“Well, it’s what I think you are,” Marco says quietly, gently.  “And I don’t think you’re an asshole.  You’re just a bit more explosive than the rest of us.  And I think that’s okay.”

A self-conscious blush spreads over my cheeks.  “Yeah, well, you’d be the first to think that, Freckles.”

“Cool.  Uncharted territory.”  Marco grins crookedly at me.  “I like that, Undercut.”

 

* * *

 

I spend the rest of the afternoon thinking about Marco Bodt. 

...I’m not entirely sure why. 

 

* * *

 

The House on the Hill smells impeccably clean.  _Always_. 

The inside reminds me of this extravagant, wicked-clean hotel I went to for my cousin’s wedding.  Every little bit of a fancy mansion cliché can be found – overflowing flowers, crystal chandeliers, white walls hung with gold-tapered paintings, two staircases joining at the second floor, soaring ceilings, and shiny wooden floorboards sheathed with thick, decorative rugs. 

The weirdest thing is that it has no viable scent other than clean.  If you go up to sniff the flower bouquets (picked by Marco), they smell _clean_.  If you head towards the kitchen, the food smells _clean_.  Even if you go up to sniff the paintings (which I have most definitely _not_ done), they smell fucking _clean_. 

Levi would love this place. 

Normally, I’ve got the entire house to myself.  There’s hardly ever any garden parties going on like this place was built for, so I’ve got free-roaming throughout the mansion to explore all the nooks in crannies.  Today, it seems life has to be that much weirder.  I guess it’s the annual Fuck-You Day for the universe. 

“Oh, hey, Jean.”  Pulling a sinuous arm from the pockets of his jeans, Marco checks his watch calmly, leaning back further against the dryer.  He tips his head back, and his Adam’s apple bobs.  “Is it time for you to head home already?  Hmm.  I wanted to talk to you.”

“Dude,” I choke, glancing down at his bare chest, “I was kidding about the nude photography.”

“Huh?”  Marco glances down at himself, and his cheeks redden rapidly, as if he’s just now realizing his semi-nakedness.  A flush mottles down his neck, across his chest – he hunches slightly, hiding those freckled abs.  Hands go to cover his face.  “Oh, sorry.  My, uh, my shirt got dirty, and I plan on staying for a while later tonight.  Oops.”

“I got no warning about the washboard stomach,” I laugh, attempting to diffuse the situation.  “I’m not sure we can be friends anymore – you’re now officially the most attractive out of the two of us.”

Marco grins, peeking out from between his fingers.  The shadows cowl his eyes, giving his grin a touch of mystery.  “Freckles yet again reign victorious.  Are you surprised?”

“I shouldn’t be.”  The machine Marco leans against dings, and the sound of clothing rolling around in the dryer amplifies.  “What’s that mean?”

Frowning, Marco turns, cocking his head and leaning down.  “I dunno, never used these before.” 

Involuntarily, my gaze drips down to Marco’s broad shoulders and speckled back, mentally tracing the dotted clusters as they ease beneath his jeans.  It’s almost like animal prints – they grow sparser down his stomach, but near the spine, you can’t spit without hitting his freckles.  Freckles?  Is that the secret of his success?  A damned genetic trait that I have no hope of getting? 

“I don’t know what it’s doing,” he calls, tilting his head back towards me, “but I should be out of your hair soon.  Once it dries up, I should be able to get back out there and work some more with Grimm.”

I shift my weight, wondering if I should excuse myself to get to the bathroom and change into my fresh clothes – usually I just change right here, leaning against the washer instead of the dryer in nothing but boxers.  Something about the half-naked Marco tells me that’d be even more awkward than this. 

Not that I'm upset by his almost-nudity.  If this incident is teaching me anything, it's that, _damn_ , mankind looks good in a pair of distressed jeans and crisp riding boots.  

“I meant to ask you, by the way, if you’d like to maybe go to a coffee shop this Wednesday with me,” Marco offers, a hopeful smile pulling at his lips.  “Reiner and I were supposed to go, but he cancelled to hang out with Bertholt.”

“Big surprise.”  I shrug, scratching at the back of my neck.  “I’m pretty busy until three o’clock – maybe I can meet you there?” 

Marco grins sheepishly.  “Actually, um, I don’t have a car.”

I stare at him, mouth falling open.  “…What?”

Raking a hand through his hair, Marco beams at me.  “I wrecked my teenage car last year.  I was saving up money, but – well, I bought Franz for my sister, so, um.  I’m broke again.  We don’t have to, I mean, I know it’s probably a long drive but I’ll pay for gas…”

“Sure thing, man.”  I shrug.  “I can do that.  I’ll pick up around four.  Right now, though, I need to do my laundry, so if you don’t mind scooting…”

“Great!”  His eyes light up, sparkling, and he sidesteps mindlessly.  “I mean, it’s great that we can grab coffee, not that – you know what?  It’s great that you’re doing your laundry, too!”

I roll my eyes.  “Yeah, see you in a bit, you adorable motherfucker.”

“Oh, one last thing, Jean –“  He breaks off suddenly, hesitating, the half-step he’d taken towards me remaining only a half-step. 

“Yes, Marco?”

He smiles weakly.  “…Just… I’m not the hotter of the both of us.  The two-tone is so sexy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys, it's me again (surprise). 
> 
> So, um, there is actually a lot of debate on the Double-Twisted Wire Bit and whether or not it's as cruel as people have blown it up to be. Whatever your beliefs are, those are Marco's, and Reiner was abusing his horse for not noticing signs of discomfort himself. Look into it yourself with these few sites if you want: [this](https://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20100926183111AAwRAm7), [this](https://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20091118055250AArxPMp), and [this](http://www.horsechannel.com/horse-resources/online-tack-guide/twisted-wire-snaffle-bit.aspx).
> 
> Remember, if you guys need any clearing up on anything remotely horselike, I will. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the kudos and comments! You guys are amazing!


	7. Armin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean is adorable with laugh attacks and Marco loves to give hugs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this chapter is... so long... I hope you guys enjoy it, I've been working on smoothing it out for a while now, and I'm nervous about posting it!
> 
> Because there's a little bit of this, here's some of the tack mentioned this chapter, specifically bits-  
> Snaffle: [normal description](http://www.equisearch.com/article/jointed-snaffle-bit-18914)  
> Mullen-Mouth: [descritpion](http://thebitguide.com/snaffle/mouthpieces/mullen-mouth-snaffle/) and [pic](http://www.thehorsebitshop.co.uk/shopimages/products/normal/176411_med.jpg/)  
> Three-Ring: [description](http://www.equisearch.com/article/threering_021005)  
> French Link: [description](http://www.equisearch.com/article/frenchlink-18439)

Jinae Park.  Jinae _fucking_ Park.  Cursing to myself, I glower down at Marco’s address as I escort my big, hulking tin can up his neatly curbed driveway.  Why hadn’t the posh name tipped me off to the fact that _Marco lives in a fucking estate,_ I don’t know. 

A fancy, brick house lies on the top of a hill, surrounded by blossoming rose bushes and a sweeping orchard of willow trees to one side.  Large, fancy windows arch overtop of a front porch built for kings, with huge columns barring the doorway.  I half expect to see a butler waiting for me outside as I pull up. 

Texting Marco to let him know that I’ve arrived, I duck out of my car and awkwardly walk towards the front door – I feel so out of place here, surrounded by blooming flowers and intimidating porches.  Maybe wearing a leather jacket and beanie was the wrong decision?  These Converses do feel slightly out of place against the neat brickwork.  Whatever, it was in the spurn of the moment.  Marco did mention something about liking hats. 

After a moment of hesitation, I ring the front doorbell.  No one inside stirs.  Uncomfortably, I shoot Marco another text, and stick my head into a window. 

The room is mostly devoid of life.  The only sign of anyone is a little girl I can just barely catch a sliver of in the other room.  Annoyed, I slam my palm into the doorbell again.  As she still ignores it, I rap my knuckles against the glass, scowling and waving my hands. 

“Oh, look over here, you dumb bitch,” I mutter beneath my breath. 

The motion seems to catch her eyes – she drops a pencil upon the table, and turns her head around to face me.  Her speckled face looks a bit like Marco’s, but wider, more circular.  My mumbled curses freeze on my lips as she rolls a wheelchair back, swiveling it towards me, an apologetic smile playing across her lips. 

_Oh, great fucking job, Kirschtein, getting pissed at the disabled.  This girl is probably Marco’s sister or some shit._

I sit sheepishly outside as she unlocks the door, nudging it open with her toe.  Warm air floods towards me from the interior of the house.  A bright grin and an adorable freckled face await me on the other side of the glass, her smile so closely resembling Marco it sends a shiver down my spine.  Blinking with sky blue eyes, she beckons me in wordlessly. 

“Hey…”  Tipping my head towards the girl, I glance up a great staircase, wondering when exactly my prince will come and save me.  “I’m Jean.  Looking for Marco.”

Silently, she waves a hand about flailingly around her ears, her smile slightly confused.  It’s like she’s shooing me off, or gesturing to her baffled thoughts.  Without saying anything else, she wheels herself back to the table and continues coloring. 

I gawk at her, standing self-consciously in the front room, wondering whether or not I should follow her.  “Um, hello?”

The room is quiet aside from the sound of her colored pencil hissing over her paper. 

Shifting uncomfortably, I stare at my phone, willing Marco to respond or _something_.  “Um, excuse me?  Little girl?  Do you know where I can find Marco?  Marco Bodt?”

She flips a page in her notebook with shaking hands – for a brief moment, I wonder what disease she has that could make her quite so jittery, quite so silent and antisocial.  Only one of her legs seems strapped into the chair, so she should be able to interact just fine. 

“Hello?”  Getting slightly ticked at the kid, I approach from behind, leaning over her.  “Are even you listening to me?”

“Moooom!” someone moans from the upstairs.  “Where did you put my hoodie?  Jean’s gonna be here any –”

Marco appears at the top of the stairwell, wearing a T-shirt and boxers.  Relief wraps my heart in a big, warm blanket, and I breathe out a sigh of gratitude.  Marco’s entire body seems to pale when he catches sight of me – it’s kind of funny, actually.  I notice that he even has freckles dotting down his legs. 

“J-Jean!” Marco stammers, white in the face.  “How long have you been down there?”

I grin snarkily up at him.  “Not that long, Freckles.  She let me in.”  I gesture towards the girl still enraptured by her drawing.  “By the way, Freckles, you should check your phone every now and then.” 

Color stains Marco’s freckled cheeks.  “My phone is in my jeans.  And, as you’re probably aware, I’m not wearing those right now.  …I’ll be down in another second.  Don’t sneak up behind my sister like that, you’ll scare her.”

“What?” I call up at him, but he’s already hastily ducked down the hallway. 

Scowling, I glare at the back of the girl’s head – so, this _is_ his sister.  Marco’s sister is almost as weird as he is.  I know rich people are strange as shit, but pretending someone’s not in the room with you as they’re trying to engage in conversation pushes a few boundaries that even the rich have. 

Her hair is a curly mess, frizzly and sticking every which way inside of her ponytail.  Are those ringlets real, or did she do some rich-girl thing to them?  They look pretty fucking real, but she also lives an estate, so how the fuck do I know?

Marco doesn’t have curls.  No, Marco’s hair is soft and silky-looking, not like that rat’s nest of a hairstyle.  I don’t think he’s got curls.  I wonder if he'd just skipped over that genetic trait, because, other than that and the blue eyes, they seem very similar.

“Sorry to keep you waiting!” Marco calls down the stairs, jarring me back to life.  “Sorry I didn’t check my phone, either.  Been a bit preoccupied.”  He flashes me a quick, nervous smile.  “Just Skyping my brother is all.  You seen my hoodie – oh, there it is.”

Marco’s shoulder brushes mine as he trots over to his sister’s side.  A whiff of cologne drifts towards me – good, expensive cologne, the type that’ll drive a woman mad with a single sniff. 

He’s wearing that camp-counsler T-shirt, I notice, the one with the raggedy holes right along the right sleeve cuff and along the left collarbone.  The navy blue color of the T-shirt really makes him look good – it brings out his tan nicely.  I’ll have to remember that.  He looks fucking great in navy blue. 

I’ll make a model out of him yet. 

Kneeling beside his sister’s wheelchair, Marco carefully edges himself into her line of sight, cautious of her blind spots.  The little girl lifts her head, eyes widening in recognition, and her face splits into a huge smile – putting down her pencil, she flurries her hands in a complex range of motions. 

Marco responds in kind, twisting and yanking his hands, moving them over his chest, his arms, even his face. 

 _Sign language_.  For fuck’s sake, I’m a terrible person.  The girl’s not rude – she’s deaf. 

As I drown myself in guilt and braid a noose of self-hatred, the girl giggles madly.  Shoving her hands up into the air, she squirms out of her green hoodie with a few helping hands from her brother, and tosses it to Marco. 

Cupping her cheek and pressing their noses together for a brief second, Marco bids her a farewell, and lifts his gaze towards me with a cheerful smile.  He pulls on the hoodie, which has the symbol for West Trost Acres (a white and blue wing overlapping) across the back and on one of the shoulders. 

“Is she…?”  Not wanting to be rude, I tap one ear, frowning.

“Yeah.”  Marco glances back at her, a half-smile taking the place of his radiant grin.  “That’s Allegra, my little sister.  She goes by Ally.  Got knee surgery a few weeks ago – she’ll be overjoyed when she finally gets to walk on her own again.” 

I frown, a bit of worry for the girl and Marco filling my heart.  “Does she have hearing aids or anything to help her out with…?”

“She does,” Marco says, sighing, “but she hates them.  Hides ‘em with her hair and such.  She’s always getting teased at school for it, so she just goes without turning them on…  Ally gets so happy when I sit down to learn more words in sign language with her.”

“Oh, yeah?”  The smirk playing with the corners of my lips isn’t a cruel one as I’d originally planned it to be – my heart is melting for little Ally, and it shows in my eyes, I’m sure.  “You must really love your sister, Marco.  Do your parents know sign language, or is that just you?”

“No, just me.”  Marco’s smile grows immensely fake, and hostility shines in his eyes for a split second.  “My parents _can’t be bothered_ by things like _that_.  ...C’mon, I need that coffee.”

“Right.”  I prop his door open for him, nodding outside.  “Y’know, Bodt, I’m starting to feel a bit like a chauffer.  Did you just need a ride to the coffee shop?  Targeted the weakest link?  Flashed me doe-eyes and then put me under your spell?”

“You must think I’m some kind of monster,” he drawls, rolling his sparkling eyes.  “I suppose it would be a surprise that anyone would want to hang out with you, Mr. Asshole, but I happen to enjoy your company.”

“I enjoy my company, too.”  Grinning, I shut the door behind us, then hesitate.  “…Should we be leaving Ally there alone?  I mean, is she going to be okay?”

“Huh?  Oh, yeah, definitely!”  Marco nods several times – something changes in his eyes, like coals that’d been just barely flickering burning back to a full smolder.  I can feel their heat as they linger on my face, then slide down my body. 

“Okay.”  I bundle my jacket tighter around me, raking a hand through my hair, fixing certain strands I know can go astray.  For whatever reason, Marco rips his gaze away and swallows hard.  I ignore it.  _Rich kids_.

He climbs in my car with ease, lifting his legs over piles of junk, smiling to himself – I clamber in quite ungracefully on the other side after nearly unhinging my door.  Marco’s giggle sounds, but he doesn’t remark. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I grumble, “shitty car in a big mansion.  Laugh all you wanted, you privileged fuck.”

“No, I love your car!” Marco protests, grinning goofily.  “It’s better than anything you could find in that stuffy old thing.  If I could, I would camp out in your car.”

“Poor ickle Marco, making his home in a big mansion,” I tease, jamming my keys in the slot violently and revving my car to life.  “How do you survive?”

“No, it’s…”  Marco glances out the window, blushing, and his voice gets really quiet.  “I know I probably sound like a ‘privileged fuck’, but… it’s so lonely in there.  And silent.  No one ever talks, ever makes a sound.  I hate it.  I hate it so much.”

I don’t know how to respond to that.  “Marco… sorry, I didn’t know –“

“You’re right,” Marco agrees, his ridiculously jovial smile feeling a bit forced this time.  “You didn’t know.  Now you do.  I’ve got it good, to be honest – don’t let me drag you down.  Reiner’s house is even bigger.”

“Still, man.”  I glance towards him guiltily.  “Just call me if you want things to ever get a bit livelier.  For fuck’s sake, _I_ won’t be doing anything.”

Marco sinks a bit into his hoodie so that half his face is almost covered by the folds of the cowl, trying – and failing – to hide a massive grin.  The delicate blush is still plenty visible over the edge of the green fabric.  “Thanks, Jean.  I might take you up on that.” 

“Okay, Freckles,” I chuckle, backing out of the smooth-paved driveway with one eye on Marco’s lovely freckled blush, one eye on the road behind us.  “Hey, pick something good to listen to, why don’t you?  I’m not sure if I can forgive an awful taste in music.”

“Well, what do you like?”  Marco ducks towards my CD collection, eyes bright.  “Oh, lots of rock, I see.  Reiner would be proud.  What’s your favorite?”

“Pearl Jam.”  I glance over at him, smirking at little Jean.  “What do you listen to, Freckles?  Beethoven symphonies?”

“It varies, mostly,” Marco admits in a light-hearted tone.  “I’ve tried to figure out my own taste in music, but – well, I don’t know if I have one.  What’s your favorite Pearl Jam album?”

“Lightning Bolt,” I answer immediately, without even needing to think about it.  “Should already be in there, if you’re cool with that.  But how do you not have a music taste?  Is that… even possible?”

Hiding his blush by checking to make sure that there is actually the Lightning Bolt album in my CD player (which is attached to the car via a handy-dandy cassette-tape converter I’d gotten as the dollar store), Marco shrugs.  “I like music that makes me think of people.  Of my friends.  Of all the people I love.  So, yeah, it varies a lot, because I love a lot of very unique weirdos.”

I don’t quite know how to respond to that, and struggle with words perhaps a beat too long.  “You must listen to heavy death metal every time you think of Levi.”  _Yeah, yeah, good job, Jean_ , I praise myself.  _You kept the tone light without making him feel awkward._

I shouldn’t be as proud of keeping him happy as I am. 

Marco laughs ruefully, jamming the play button on my dashboard.  “You know, I’ve never really considered Levi one of my friends before, but you’re probably right.  I love that little horse to death, and so do you, Jean, even if you won’t believe it, but he would kill me in a heartbeat.”

“I bet you that Shetland knows how to properly dispose of a body.  No one would ever suspect the horse.”

“You know,” Marco hums, “there was this stablehand once – he would always call Levi ‘Devil Pony’ and never ever once seemed to smile… I haven’t heard from him in quite some time, actually…”

I shove him playfully.  “Shut up, Bodt, I totally smile.”

“Really now?”  He beams at me, and, in that split second, I notice that he’s got the remnants of a milk-mustache from his breakfast.  “Because I never see this so-called smile you’re speaking of.”

“Just because I don’t laugh at your jokes doesn’t mean I don’t laugh at good ones.”

Marco boos.  “You’re so mean to me.  Maybe I’ll be an accomplice in Levi’s murder.”

“Well, now I’ll be sure to let the police know,” I threaten.  “Point them towards the Bodt family manor from beyond the grave.  I’ll haunt the shit out of your freckled ass, Marco.”

“Reiner has a priest for an uncle,” Marco dismisses, shrugging.  “I could camp out at a nice Catholic church for the night and keep the evil spirits at bay.  The power of Christ compels you, and all that crap.”

For some reason, that has me laughing much harder than it should, especially considering Marco’s still not all that funny.  My shoulders rock uncontrollably, each breath ripping through my lungs.  It’s hard to keep my head up, really – I feel like slouching forwards over the wheel, clutching my stomach. 

“Who’s not funny now?”

I give up – my forehead presses against the center of the steering wheel, and I just laugh.  It’s crazy, it’s weird as shit, and I’m probably freaking Marco out, but I can’t help it.  I give my soul to that laughter.  One by one, I shut off each of my senses – I close my eyes, ignore the coolness of the wheel against my forehead, forget the smell of old-car and cigarettes.  I keep my hearing because, by God, when Marco begins to laugh beside me, there’s no way I could possibly ignore that, and my taste because there’s no real way to ignore a tongue, ignore the things a tongue wants to feel, wants to learn the flavor of, no matter how wrong it may be. 

Each time I pause for breath, I wonder for a split second: “Am I done now?”

And then Marco will giggle adorably and set me off again, making me laugh even harder.  My lungs hurt.  I don’t know the last time I’ve laughed this hard.  And I don’t even fucking know why.

But it feels… so _good_. 

Marco’s laughter is really the best laughter on this earth, too, and that doesn’t do much to quell my case of the funny bug.  With each new peal of his laughter, he brings a new, slight change to it – higher in pitch, quicker in tempo, slower, throatier, _happier_ , but all still very, very Marco.  I strain my ears, struggling to pick up each new shift in laughter.  My own chuckling quiets to the rare hiccup as I listen, enraptured. 

 _He’s so beautiful when he laughs_ , I realize, shocked that I hadn’t noticed before on any of the other occasions.  Not just his voice, though that’s something to be revered, but his face – his _face_ –

My gut pangs painfully.  _I need my cameras_. 

Somewhere along the way, Marco seems to notice that he’s laughing solo, and it begins to dwindle.  As he slowly trails off, a self-conscious blush coloring his cheeks, my heart feels as if it’s being strangled in my chest.  I want to hear him laugh more, not be the reason he stops. 

“Oh, um – so, I guess I’m a lot funnier than you were counting on.”  Marco’s smile is half-assed and silly. 

I roll my eyes, but still, I cannot quell the smile lifting the corners of my lips.  “Freckles, there is a difference between laughing _with_ and laughing _at_ someone.”

“Well, then, in that case, I was laughing at you.”  A crooked grin streaks over Marco’s face.  “We aren’t even out of my driveway yet, Jon-Bon.  If you start laughing at me again in the middle of the highway, we’ll never get anywhere.”

“Oh, don’t worry.”  Keeping my eyes locked on the rearview mirror to avoid getting distracted and proving his point, I focus on backing up the car.  “I’m not going to be laughing at any more of your jokes.”

“Shame.”  Marco tsks to himself, and, in the corner of my eye, I can’t help but despair as the happy post-laughter flush slowly fades from his freckled cheeks.  “You realize you’ve squashed all of my childhood dreams of being a famous comedian?  The world will never know my glory…”

“That’s a good thing, Bodt,” I grunt, taking my hunk of junk to the open country road. 

As it happens, we’ve got a long, long time to talk more in depth about Marco’s doomed dream of comedic fame – we get stuck in the commuter traffic around Richmond, and end up caught in my car together for an hour.  Not that it’s a bad thing, really.  It could be much worse – if I was trapped with Connie or Sasha (or, God forbid, both of them) I’d probably claw my eyeballs out.  Marco never seems to run out of polite small-talk. 

I wonder when he’s going to his next competition.  Marco excitedly tells me that it’s going to be in two weeks.  I make the assumption that this would be the reason he’s been at the stable a whole lot recently. He confirms.  I ask why he doesn’t keep his horses at his massive estate.  He says that his mother doesn’t like animals bigger than her palm, but admits to owning a herd of sheep to keep the lawn cut.  I request a story on that particular subject.  Marco tells me all about one time he got too drunk and a sober-Reiner convinced him to mass-order dog collars for all of those sheep.  I tell him a drunk story in return about accidentally walking into a gay stripclub and spending most of the night there without realizing.  Marco gets very, very quiet. 

I don’t understand why he gets like that sometimes.  So, to pick up the conversation again, I ask him whether or not Grimm’s mouth is going to be well enough by the time of the closest competition for Reiner to show him. 

“Oh!”  Marco blinks a few times.  “Y’know, I think I’ll have to discuss that with him and our vet – I mean, the mullen-mouth bit is working great for Grimm, he’s had a great improvement since yesterday – and it was only yesterday, so…  ‘Course, ’e’s grumpy as hell, but he responds much better to Reiner now.  I don’t think I want them in the ring yet, though.”

“Makes sense.”  I shrug.  “So, what do you think he’s going to have to do when Grimm’s mouth heals up?  A mullen-mouth ain’t gonna quell that temper forever.”

“True,” Marco acknowledges, nodding.  “Maybe in the future, a Kimblewick, but not for a while.  I’m thinking just a snaffle…?  Simple, effective.  The damage done to Grimm’s tongue will never fully heal, but it should take the pressure away from the most sensitive parts.”

I make a noise of disagreement in the back of my throat.  “Nuh-uh, bad idea.  I’m not a pro horseman, but doesn’t the snaffle bit kind of have a pinching-thing in the center?  Wouldn’t do that.  Go with, like, the less severe one.”

“Uh, the French link?”  Pleasant surprise gleams in Marco’s eyes.  “Good thinking, Jean.  We might have to monitor it a bit because it’ll rest against his tongue, but it’s definitely gentler.  I don’t know if we have any of those lying around the stables other than Polo’s specialty one – I might have to talk to Rico about that, she’ll be able to find one of there’s any.  If not, she’ll know some local salesmen with good quality bits.”

I ease the car into the lane headed towards Richmond downtown, but I’m still utterly focused on everything Marco’s saying.  “What bits do you use on your horses, Marco?”

His entire face lights up.  He props up one arm on the door as he speaks, waving his fingers with everything he says.  It’s cute.  “Well, for trail-riding and pleasure-riding, I use mullen-mouths.  Neither of my horses have any difficulties with them.  During foxhunts, I have a snaffle forged especially for Batman's mouth with D-rings; it sits nicely inside his mouth so that he repsonds with minimal pinching.  I use it for showing, too, actually.  For Polo, I switch between an atypical full-cheek snaffle and a rubber French Link, depending on how I’m feeling and how responsive he is.”

“You really love those horses, don’t you, Marco?” I chuckle, shaking my head.  “Damn.  Glad I know you, Bodt.  Think everyone needs a person like you in their lives. 

“Oh.”  Marco seems to sink in on himself slightly, but I can tell it’s done happily in its execution.  “Oh, thank you, Jean.  I think everyone needs a good dose of asshole in their lives, too, so we’re about equal, I’d say.”

“Accept a compliment, Freckles.  You’re not going to get many of them.”

Marco giggles.  “Now, that’s fairly inconsistent with the happenings of late, but I’ll let it slide.  Where are we headed, by the way?  You said you had someplace different in mind…?”

“Yeah, actually.”  I yank a hard left, accidentally jostling the freckled beauty beside me.  “Oops, sorry.  I was thinking we could head down to the café – restaurant – fuck, I don’t know what it is.  The _food place_ that Connie and Sasha work at.  Give them a bit of business.”

“Okay.”  He sounds like he’s stomaching more laughter.  “That’s fine by me.  …Sasha is the one that has the ability to inhale entire loaves of bread between sentences, right?”

I grimace, sighing, “Nice to know she didn’t skimp on the party tricks.  Yeah, that’s Sasha for you.  She’s one of the head-chefs there.  It’s a good job for her, I think.”

“Worst part must be giving the food she makes away, I think.”

“You know her so well already.”  I flash him a snarky grin.  “Damn, it’s like you’re trying to impress someone with your people-reading skills.  If it’s me, color me impressed.”

Marco cocks an eyebrow, and, despite the sharklike hardness in his grin, his eyes are soft, that warm, molten-cocoa soup that makes my thoughts sort of flutter off.  “That’s another compliment, Jean.”

“Dammit, Marco,” I mutter.

“Careful, someone’s going to think you’re flirting with me.  Wouldn’t want that.”

I grumble, “Careful, someone’s never going to take you out for coffee ever again.”

Marco apologizes all the way to the parking spot, and even some beyond that.  It all sort of blends together, and, although I glance over at him often to make sure that he’s still repaying me for his unkindness, I don’t focus on his words.  Instead, I find myself subtly staring at a bruise behind his ear and tapering down his neck, hidden mostly by his hair.  Thinking back to the shirtless prelude I’d received from my model… that hadn’t been there yesterday. 

The dark, dense clouding of the bruise worries me.  It looks so much like it was inflicted by a fist.  Though it guilts me, my first thought is of Reiner, because if anyone’s got the brawn to knock Marco around, it’s him.  Monster of a man could knock _anybody_ around.   And, if it is Reiner, the abuse might not just be thrown punches. 

My skin prickles at the thought of that.  Marco vouches for Reiner as a good person, but I’ve seen nothing but lewdness and blunt, thoughtless homosexuality.  If he’s putting his hands all over my Marco…

No, no, that can’t be it.  Marco adores the man in a very domestic fashion, nothing more, nothing less.  I sigh to myself, guilty for ever even considering it. 

Marco glances sideways towards me.  “Something wrong, Jean?  …You’re looking a bit distracted.” 

“Hmm?”  I blink a few times.  “Yeah, yeah.  I’m good.”  Selecting a parking lot that’s located a little further back into the alleys, I squeeze my car through a few narrow gaps, seeking out the hidden lots between old factory buildings.  “So, um, it’s getting a bit late – you wanna have an early dinner with that coffee?”

“I won’t protest.”  Marco smiles out the window.  “Though I will insist on paying.”

I shrug only a little, keeping my grip on the wheel ginger, knowing that a slightest touch to the wrong direction will cause sparks and a metal-on-brick grate.  “I won’t protest.  ‘Sides, Sasha makes the best dinners, anyway.  I’m tired of eating popcorn while she serves other people gourmet meals.  Not that you’d have any problems about that, but whatever.”

“We don’t have a chef, Jean,” Marco chuckles.  “No staff, actually.  Well, sometimes a nurse when Ally gets bad, but nothing else.”

“Really?”  I shoot him a puzzled glance.  “How do you live in a house that big and maintain that yard?” 

Marco chews at his lip, refusing to meet my gaze.  “We make do.”

“Oh.  Okay.”  A touch of pride tickles my heart as my car slides from the alleyway.  This particular parking lot is all but forgotten, because a few years ago, it used to be owned by a violent druglord.  He packed up a while back, but people are still edgy about heading this far into the alleys, even if it’s in the center of commerce in the Fan. 

Marco isn’t as jumpy as this one girl I took out here when we were going out on a date.  I suppose she had more to worry about than being mugged, being a pretty, defenseless girl, but it’s too central for gangs, too close to the Social Security Offices.  Like having a terrorist group that meets right in front of the Pentagon. 

Still, privileged Marco does seem a bit tense. 

“There’s no struggle for parking, at least,” he remarks as I lazily pull into one of the poorly-defined spaces. 

“Don’t worry, Bodt.”  I pucker my lips towards him.  “I’ll keep you safe from the mean thugs.”

“My hero,” Marco sighs, batting his eyelashes towards me.  “I hope you don’t seek out places like this on your own.  It can be dangerous, you know.”

“I know.”  I yank the keys from the ignition and flash him a snarky half-grin.  “But I’m not dead yet, am I?  Don’t worry about me.”

Marco harrumphs.  “Too late for that.  You are a worrying sort of person, Jean.  Now.  Escort me through these dangerous channels, then give me coffee.  I need coffee.”

“Sure thing, Bodt.”

He giggles a bit, but his eyes still trace the outline of the alley nervously – I can tell he doesn’t like the bend in the road, doesn’t like the weedy little boy watching us from the top-window of a crappy apartment.  His eyes flit about, his hands grind against the inside of his pockets. 

Marco is calm and in-control most of the time.  It’s a little funny to see him suffering with the average rich-white-boy problems, but, in the same heartbeat, I can’t bring myself to tease him about it again. 

He pauses momentarily at the mouth of the alleyway, his face twisting hesitantly.  Big, glittering brown eyes swell up with fear.  He stares towards me beggingly, quiet plea to turn back there. 

“C’mon, Marco.”  I nod towards the alley.  “’S not that bad, man.”

“I’m – I’m sorry, of course it isn’t.”  Marco smiles uncertainly, watching me through his eyelashes.  “Sorry.  Never liked these places very much.”

“’S okay.”  I hold out an elbow to him, blushing slightly.  “Just… c’mon.”

Marco fucking pounces on my arm, wrapping himself around my bicep without a touch of hesitance.  I keep my eyes on his locked on face with an expression I hope is comfortable, and absentmindedly, I end up studying the beauty in his photogenic features.  His cheeks have such a rosy-red glow with his blush, mixing with his freckles like an ornate oil painting.  _Damn_. 

The kid in the window vanishes, and Marco fucking jumps, hugging my arm a bit tighter.  He swings his head back and forth, as if expecting the kid to jump out with a couple of buff henchmen. 

“Calm,” I remind him, placing one of my hands over his.  “You’re okay, Freckles.”

“Sorry, Jean.”  He at last notices my effort to be comforting, and our gazes interlock.  The first dollop of sunlight hits his face as he lifts his head to see me, and a splash of vibrant orange rings around one of his eyes, gold around the other.  I simply can't look anywhere but his eyes.  As he stares at me with pupils blown wide, his lips parted slightly, I notice again the hair swinging in his face. 

_I should help him with that._

My hand jerks, but it doesn’t move from my side – I can’t do that.  My throat dries, closing up.  I can’t push his hair from his face.  I can’t.

Marco and I both look away, blushing, in the same moment.  I grit my teeth as he clears his throat uncomfortably, resisting the urge to pound my hand against my own forehead.  _Jean,_ I scold myself, _you are not a schoolgirl with a crush.  You are not a schoolgirl.  You do not have a crush.  Pull it together._

“Your earring is upside-down,” Marco mumbles.  “It’s, like, a Satanic cross instead of hipster sign.”

“Get your goddamned hair out of your face, Freckles.” 

A sticky feeling gums up my chest, crushing my heart.  I don’t trust myself to look at Marco, but fueling the speed of our walking instead.  He doesn’t have much of a problem with that, seeming eager to leave the alleyway behind. 

“So,” Marco squeaks eventually, “do you have any plans about getting your own apartment?”

I shrug, pretending that I’m not hyperaware of the way Marco’s arms adjust around my bicep.  “Not really.  I don’t have quite enough cash yet.”

Marco thinks for a second – in the corner of my eye, I watch him chew his lip.  “You know, you get paid a massive amount extra for attending to horses during shows.”

A sound of scorn escapes my throat before I can stop it – I shake my head crisply.  “Marco, you and I both know I would not function well at a show filled with big, spirited horses.”

“Yeah, but –”

“No, Marco.”  I glare at him.  I harden my heart to the crumpling hope in his face.  “I’m not going to go to any shows.  I’m sticking to Stable Maria.”

“Okay, Jean.”  Marco’s voice is quiet.  I wouldn’t call it quite _hurt_ , but there’s something in it I can’t quite place.  “That’s alright.  If you change your mind… let me know.”

I drag him out into the road, then cut a sharp left towards West Cary Street.  “See, Marco, there wasn’t anything to worry about in that alley.  No one wants to mug your freckled ass.”

He throws up his hands, quelling a smile.  “Sorry!  Can’t blame a guy for being cautious…”

“Watch me.”

“Bite me.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Marco stumbles on the curb, his cheeks going bright red.  His shoes must’ve grown suddenly quite interesting, because he stares at them intently, blinking with wide eyes down at his feet. 

I know I should take that back.  I don’t want Marco to get the wrong idea.  I know I should blush just as hard as him and splutter out an apology and do my best to make him forget it.  My shoes should abruptly become fascinating, too.  But… for some reason I can’t quite explain, I don’t say another word. 

“Where… where is their shop?” Marco stutters.  “Or their café, or their restaurant, or…”

“Their location of indiscriminate eating,” I provide helpfully. 

“Yes, that.”  He flashes me a tense smile.  “Where is that?  Close, or far?  You’ve got to be careful on these wide-open roads, you know.  Tons of muggers.  Never any witnesses.”

“Oh, Marco,” I tsk.  “You’re so naïve.”

“I am, aren’t I?”  Marco bares his teeth in a broader smile, comfort seeping back into his shoulders.  He tosses back his head and stares at the clouds, laughing quietly.  “Little old naïve me with big strong Kirschtein on the block.  Good thing, too, else I’d never find parking around here.  …That their unbiased-eating-location over there?”

I nod a few times – it, like most of the Richmond downtown, is a simple brick building that was probably used as an ironworks or slave quarters once upon a time, but had since been spruced up.  Ivy growing along the wall is cut so that it spells out the words “The Peppered Potato” along the brick.  Down this shop’s narrow alleyways, local street-artists have all shared their separate visions of what a potato really looks like. 

That’s one of the things I really like about Richmond – it’s eccentric and weird and just so funny sometimes.  We hire people to illegally paint pictures of potatoes on our historic buildings.  I mean, what’s not to love?

The funniest thing is that Marco seems to be just as happy out here, too, despite his weird thing about alleyways.  His eyes are bright and lively, dancing over our surroundings.  He laughs at a pair of children racing their bikes home, he wishes a homeless singer good luck and digs out a dollar coin to flip into their guitar case, and winks towards a street artist working on a potato drawing on the sidewalk outside of the Peppered Potato. 

“So, like,” I tell him as we approach the doors, “Sasha has been working here ever since we were in high school.  She’s like the _you_ of the Peppered Potato.  Best chef in the place.  Connie is like the _me_ of the Peppered Potato.  He’s been here for a few months as a waiter.”

“Okay.”  Marco flashes me a smile, suddenly seeming a bit nervous.  “Will the staff… like… recognize you?”

“Probably?”  I shrug.  “I dunno.  I don’t get out very often.  You know – I don’t like people.”

“Oh.”  Marco frowns, staring intensely at the door handle as he pulls it open for us.  “…You like me, don’t you?”

“Fuck yeah, Bodt,” I grunt, rolling my eyes.  “If I didn’t like you, I wouldn’t bother going out to coffee.  I’d tell you to fuck off and go sit at home like a lonely little shit for a while longer.”

“Okay!”  Marco gives me that huge-ass grin of his, his eyes sparkling.  “Just wanted to make sure!”

To say that the inside of the Peppered Potato isn’t as eccentric as the outside would be to lie through your teeth.  Unlike most eating places, which chose a theme and stick with it, the Peppered Potato hadn’t quite been able to choose something and design the areas consistently.  Comprised of differently-themed seven rooms on two stories, the Peppered Potato serves many different guests with different designs: a snug, toasty café directly to our left, and a dark, sultry bar through a doorway to our right greets us. 

Marco whips his head from side to side, eyes wide.  “What – that’s so cool.”  He meanders over to a map, forgetting all about the food we’re supposed to be ordering.  “So, there are all sorts of different rooms?  Which one are we going to?”

I shrug indifferently.  “Dunno.  I thought we’d go to the café one, but, y’know, whatever you want.  You’re treating me to dinner.”

“And you’re hauling my ass everywhere.”  Marco glances towards me with a tender look in his brown eyes, seeming almost affectionate.  “Which one is your favorite?  If you’ve got one, I mean.”

Hell, I’ve been to every single setup in this place, even the exclusive Room Seven with the scarlet wallpaper, velvet seats, and black-tie dresscode.  Each room has something that makes it unique, but it’s easy to choose. 

“The American diner one.”  I nod towards the direction of the café, smirking to myself.  “I mean, it’s got jukeboxes and everything, all with old Beatles music and stuff.  No competition.”

“Diner one it is.”  Marco turns his head back and forth curiously, his eyes cleverly darting about.  “Now, um, what do we – oh.”

A few half-seconds later, Connie slams into me from the side.  “Jean!” he cries, giving me a quick hug before dancing back and flailing his hands about madly.  “The hell are you doing out of the house?  Aren’t you usually curled up in your boxers and pouting about life right now?”

“Connie!” I hiss, casting an apologetic glance towards Marco.  “Shut up!”

Connie follows my gaze to see Marco.  His eyes grow wide, but he seems more confused than before.  “Oh – Marco!  Haven’t seen you in a while!  I thought you ditched this sorry piece of ass?”

“No, that’s not it at all,” Marco assures, smiling – when isn’t he smiling?  “Jean’s just a bit antisocial – we haven’t had the opportunity to get together for a while.”

“Oh, okay.”  Grinning like a jackal, Connie wheels around to face me, eyes gleaming like a maniac’s.  “I suppose you’ll want Room Seven, then, won’t you, Jeanbo?”

“Connie!”

“Fine, fine, fine,” the bald man grumps, shaking his head slowly, lips peeled back in a teasing sneer.  “Well, then, I suppose it’s your usual perch in Room Four?  You lonely bastard, ever think about changing it up a bit?”

“Well,” Marco pipes up, “he’s not at home in his boxers, so that’s something.”

Connie smirks, hiding his face from Marco’s view, and breathes, “I bet you wish you could be at home in your boxers with this guy around, eh, Jean?”

I feel my ears going pink. _Jean, you cannot strangle a man with so many witnesses nearby_ , I chide myself.  “I will not tip you if you keep this up.  Listen, get us a table, then tell Sasha to add her special spices onto our dishes, alright?  I’m sure Marco’s hungry, cuz I know I am.”

“Marco’s hungry, now is he?”  Connie wiggles his eyebrows at me, grinning suggestively.  “He thirsty, too?”

“Get us our fucking table, asshat.”

“Alright, alright!”  Strutting off with his hands in the air, Connie does his best to appear miffed and not delightfully scandalized.  “Don’t tell me how to do my job, Jean-Bean.  Lemme go get Sasha… you can find your own way around, can’t you?”

 I nod a few times.  “Yeah, I got that.  Oh, and put in a good word with your manager or whoever the fuck it is, eh?  I don’t want a full-price meal.”

Thankfully, Marco stays silent.  Maybe he’s a bit tighter on money than his mummy and dada. 

Connie flicks his hand in a “whatever” sort of gesture and disappears into the kitchen, already calling out Sasha’s name.  Chuckling, I shake my head after him, and then turn back to Marco. 

“Sorry, he’s a bit of a mess,” I apologize, rolling my eyes.  “C’mon, our table for two is ready.  Right this way, Mr. Bodt.”

Shyly, he peeks at me through his lashes, before glancing away quickly, cheeks flushing again.  I _don’t understand_ how a man as tall and toned as Marco can pull off adorable, but, damn, if I knew, I’d tell all my models to do the same.  A couple of women watch him as he strolls by my side, their catlike eyes filled with predatory lust. 

I don’t like them staring at innocent little Marco like they want to rip him apart with their scarlet, talon-like nails.  The thing is, Marco’d totally have no idea what he’s doing, and fall prey to those whores.  Then he’d just be like one of Reiner’s boy-toys, except for one of those sluts. 

A spike of anger jolts through me, and I walk a bit faster.  _I won’t let that happen to you, buddy_.

Marco ducks beneath the low-hanging archway between rooms before me.  Hearing his quiet gasp is just as good as the praise he heaps upon the shop.  Hell, seeing Marco giggle, skip into the middle of the room, and rub his shoes against the glossy black-and-white checkerboard tiles just to hear the squeak is enough.  A family of children nearby grins towards him and follow his lead as they wait for their food, rubbing the plastic bottoms to their light-up sneakers on the floor and annoying the hell out of their parents with the squeaks. 

“Wow, this place really is nice!” Marco warbles, his eyes still flashing with excitement.  “I love Richmond, I really do – this is so cool.”  He shoots a quick, playful glare my direction.  “Oi, I saw that eye-roll – news flash, Kirschtein, I’m rich, but I’m a rich _dweeb_.”

“Y’know, somehow, I received that notion.”  I grin at him crookedly, ambling closer towards the silly brunet.  “C’mon, where do you wanna sit?”

Marco shrugs.  “Where do you usually sit?”

“Over here.”  Shoving my hands in my pockets, I sidle over to the red-leather booth located snugly in the corner.  “Best place for people-watching, this one.  You can see the road, the people in the café, and the people in Room Five.  Since that’s usually all I do here, it’s…”  Suddenly, I’m self-conscious.  “It’s a good seat for me.”

“Alright.”  Marco slides onto the seat, his eyes fixed on the cactus in the window.  “What do you usually get?”

“Whatever the fuck Sasha’s feeling like.”  Flashing Marco a cheerful smile, I peer out towards the kitchen doors, eagerly awaiting the bustling chef.  “I mean, honestly, it doesn’t even matter what it is.  If she’s feeling in the mood to make it, it’ll taste a bajillion times better.”

He nods several times, smiling still.  Propping one elbow up on the desk, Marco leans towards me across the table.  His cheek is squished up again – the light in the diner compliments those freckles, and makes the shadows on his face seem softer, cuter. 

“So, Jean, um.”  He glances bashfully downwards, blushing like a schoolgirl.  “Look, I, uh – I was wondering…  Okay, before you shoot me down, I’d like for you to hear me out, alright?”

“Sure, Freckles.”  I set my head down on my forearms, staring up at him and feigning disinterest.  “I’m all ears.”

“Look, Jean –”  Marco stares down at the table, blushing hard.  “Ah, it’s nothing.”

“Is it something you want me to listen to or is it nothing?”

“I just…”  Marco rubs at his neck, shoving back the hair at the edge of his bruise.  “I saw you staring at this is all.  Thought I was strong enough to talk about, but…”  He stares intensely at his hands, eyes growing wetter, face becoming taut, fear consuming the gentleness in his nature.  “I can’t,” he finishes weakly, the shame in his voice stabbing me through the heart. 

“Hey, buddy…”  I sit up, smiling in a way I hope is comforting.  “Look, Marco… you’re getting hurt.  I don’t like that.  I don’t want you to be bruised up.  But I’m not going to pressure you into anything, so… you can chill out and wait until you’re reading to get help.”

His smile is brittle.  “…You’re really not the asshole you try to be, you know that, Jean?”

“Quiet, Freckles.”  I lean across the table and squeeze his free hand.  “’Sides, my stepmom was in an abusive relationship before my dad, so… she taught me ‘bout this kind of stuff.  For example, I shouldn’t do nothing without your consent.”  Cocking an eyebrow, I give him my best gentle smile again.  “Could get you into even more trouble, and I don’t want that.”

Marco flushes bright red, staring down towards my hand tops his.  “U-uh…  Thanks, Jean.  …You’re… surprisingly sweet, y’know?” 

“No, I’m not,” I scoff.  “I just don’t want my sugar daddy getting hacked up.  My money comes from you, Bodt.  Plus… your model face is a sight to behold.  You’ll have the people in the studio drooling.”

Leaning forward, Marco winks.  “Not a model, Jon-Bon.”

“You should be,” I insist.  “Be my model, Bodt.”

He opens his mouth to answer, his eyes shining with amusement, but Marco doesn’t get a chance to say a thing.  The doors to the kitchen slam open with a loud bang, and, from the depths of the Peppered Potato, Sasha explodes, with Connie hot on her heels. 

Sasha, being a tall, pretty woman with reddish brown hair, storms towards our table with an aura of terrifying control over the situation and a grin like she’d just won the Powerball.  Jabbing a finger into my face, she stands in front of our table, hand on her hips. 

The first thing out of her mouth?

“You _are_ gay for Marco!”

“We’re so proud of you,” Connie chirps from behind her, a bald head looming over her shoulder.  “Coming out to yourself is always a first step!”

“What –” I start, but Marco squirms his hand out from under mine, cutting me off as comprehension dawns.  _Oh_.  I’d never ended my platonic hand-holding.  Well, that’s the last time I try to be helpful for the big freckled doofus. 

“Jean is straight,” Marco reminds them gently.  “This is not happening.  And even if it were, he’s got enough brains to not take someone out on a Wednesday.”

“It’s okay, Junny-Bun,” Sasha clucks like a mother-hen, sticking her hand in the pocket of her apron and allowing for a sly view of her phone.  “I have proof and everyone knows it now.  Eren’s throwing a fit in the comments.”

My face pales.  “Not even you would do something that devilish.”

Connie tsks, shaking his head from side to side.  “Never underestimate Sasha’s demons.  We’re just giving you a polite nudge towards your sexuality, nerd.  God knows you’re not going to realize without some…”

“Gentle persuasion,” Sasha purrs, flashily catlike eyes towards her fiancé.

Marco chokes with stifled laughter next to me.  ’Least, I think it’s laughter.  “I’m sure Jean appreciates your efforts, Sasha, Connie, but you should – you should take any photos you took off of the web before too much damage is dealt.  It can be hard, getting a job and being presumed gay because of a photo a friend took.”

I glance towards him awkwardly, my scowl turning into more of a frown.  “Sounds like experience, Bodt.”

Marco grins apologetically.  “Reiner is… a handful.”

“You must convey our wishes to forge a treaty with this Reiner,” Connie intones, resting his chin on Sasha’s shoulder. 

“Yes, our horizons could be expanded with another at our side!” Sasha cries jubilantly, lifting her hands to the sky as if praising God.  “We must meet with this Reiner in secret and scheme alongside him.” 

“Sasha, just take our orders,” I groan. 

She sniffs, sticking her nose in the air.  “Okay, princess, what do you want for dinner, huh?  Anything in particular I can get you sweethearts?”

“We’ll have whatever you feel like cooking the most, thank you, Sasha.”  Marco smiles brightly up at her, practically batting his eyes as he silently implores for an end in her torture.  “Jean speaks highly of your cooking, Miss.  I can’t wait for a taste of it.”

Sasha blushes with pleasure, looking absolutely tickled.  Her eyes almost seem wistful.  “God, I wish you were straight, cuz I’d fuck the shit outta that ass of yours.”

“…Oh.”   Marco looks positively _alarmed_.

“He is straight,” I gripe, glaring at her sideways, as Connie at last processes what his fiancée had said and launches into a wailing fit. 

“Jesus Christ, Potato Head, I was kidding!” Sasha sighs, hitting him upside the jaw with her waiter’s list.  “Okie dokie, Marco, Jean, just wait here and I’ll get you your dinner.  Should be out soon, actually – I’m already making some good old stew.”  Her face flickers with momentary sadness.  “Stew season is almost gone already, ain’t it?  That… oh, that pisses me off.  You guys might be my last stew order until next winter.”

“Well, that’s no good.”  Marco frowns, still a polite, gentlemanly fuck.  “Do you like making soups very much, then?”

“Stews,” Sasha corrects, “and yeah, they’re my favorite.  I love working with broth – it’s heavenly!  Meat in liquid form!  I’ll make sure to show you how great my cooking is, yeah?  This will be the best stew you’ve ever tasted!”

“You’re making me hungry just thinking about it,” he laughs.  “Stew’s always been a favorite of mine – and I’ve been looking for a place around here that has things like that, so maybe you can expect future orders closer to time.”

Beaming, Sasha jots something down on her notebook, her ears turning pink.  “You are just adorable, Marco.  Jean, keep this one around, you’re allowed to marry him.  Connie, with me, let’s whip up trouble.”

“Thank you, Miss!” Marco calls after them, waving without regard to Connie’s protests of Sasha dragging him back into the kitchen.  “I look forward to tasting –”  The kitchen doors bang shut.  “Oh, well, goodbye.”

I roll my eyes at him.  “You’re too nice, Bodt.”

“There’s no such thing.  And you have lovely friends, Jean.  A bit loud, but lovely.”

“They’re more than loud, they’re jackasses,” I growl balling my fists and glaring at the table.  “Goddammit, they better delete that photo, else I’ll have their heads.  Always pulling something like this, _always_ …”

Marco’s smile is tender, and it takes a great deal of effort not to lock his gaze and grin back like an idiot.  “ _Reiner_ , Jean.  I have _Reiner_.  I guarantee you, we do not want them all hanging out together.”

“Ugh, fuck, no.”  I rest my head against the table, scowling at Marco’s chest absentmindedly.  “That’s worse than horse-shit.”

“I meant to ask you, by the way, how you’re adjusting?”  Marco’s smile takes on a slightly more personal moment, and, with his pause, I take the time to contemplate all the different sorts of Marco-smiles.  Hell, I should make a Marco-smile chart.

“Umm, I’m doing alright.”  Weakly, I shrug.  “I mean – I mean…  I’m happy with the ponies.”  I curl in on myself a little, hiding my face behind my forearms.  “I’m just…  Marco, I’m – I’m scared what’ll happen if someone calls me away to work in Stable Sina or Rose if someone’s not there.  Because…  Well… you know I have a phobia.”

“Yes.”

“And you know it’s pretty bad.”

“Figured.”

“So, like, it’s been getting a bit better.”  I swallow, cheeks burning, and a part of me – a very large part – can’t imagine why I’m even telling him about this.  “But it’s not getting better fast enough.”

“The ponies would help,” Marco adds in a quiet, understanding tone of voice.  I shut my eyes slowly and just listen to him for a few seconds.  “If you’re not comfortable around full-sized horses yet, their smaller size and less formidable appearance would be less threatening.  Besides, our ponies usually have calmer personalities than the bigger show-horses we keep in Sina and Rose.”  He pauses for half a second.  “Forgive me if this is prying, but I’ve noticed that you’re not particularly scared of a good-natured horse – for example, when Polo and I are walking somewhere, you almost seem… at ease with him, despite his large size.  You seem even fond of Commander Handsome.  But with Grimm – with Daisy – God, with Franz – you… don’t handle it so well.”

Meekly, I press my chin against the table.  “I… I don’t like skittish horses.  They’re too… unpredictable.”

“Okay.”  Marco is silent for a moment.  “Well, then, you can always predict this, Jean: I’ll be there.”

“Huh?”  I peek at him over my arm. 

“I’ll be there.”  Marco smiles at me softly, lowering his head to the table and mimicking my posture so that we’re eye-to-eye again.  “To help with the larger horses.  Whenever someone’s out sick or late or gone for the day and you have to cover, I’ll be there.”

My heart stutters pathetically in my chest.  “Marco, you’ve got classes –”

“You’re right, I do.”  He lifts an eyebrow, and the corners of his lips lift into a Marco-smirk, the special Marco-smirk, one with eyes as sweet as honey.  “I go to school, Jean, I’m not defined by it.  If you ever need help, I will hightail my ass over to your side and help you.”

I chuckle to hide the mad flush in my cheeks.  “It’s funny, hearing you cuss.  Didn’t think you were – oh, there’s the Devil and her deputy, I’m shutting up while I still can.”

Not even half a second later, Sasha bursts through the door, holding a tray in her hands and smiling her wicked Grinch-smile.  The moment Marco lifts his gaze to her, his attention shifting away from me, Sasha’s demeanor changes slightly – she crumbles and smiles softly back at him.  Giddiness takes the place of malice in her heart. 

“My, you were quick!” Marco praises.  “And – o-oh.”  He takes in a deep breath, and, either this guy’s a natural actor, or that stew smells like a chunk of heaven.  “ _God_.  That smells _so good_.  Jesus _Christ_.  I’ll admit, I was buttering you up a bit, but –”  He breathes in slowly.  “I didn’t need to.”

“Oi!”  Connie slams my tray down in front of me and then completely disregards everything about me, turning viciously on Marco.  “I don’t fucking care if you’re a guest, I don’t fucking care if you’re gay as shit, just get the fuck back from wifey!”

Marco seems startled, bewildered – he blinks a few times like he’d been slapped, and his mouth gapes at the open air.  Another moment more of that scolded-puppy face and I swear, I’m going to kill Connie. 

Thankfully, in the last moment before Connie gets a knife through the chest, Marco recovers.  “Oh, no, it’s nothing like that.  Actually, if anything, I’m flirting with her food.  I’m stewosexual, y’know.  I feel kind of bad third-wheeling Jean, to be honest.”

Connie is wordless.  He stares at Marco with a blank expression, mouth hanging open.  Sasha, too, stares in utter awe.  For a few more seconds, I allow them to gape and gawk at him, but then I burst into uncontrollable laughter. 

I can feel the confused eyes of the non-stewosexual boring into my brain, but I don’t care.  I hit my head against the table and laugh to myself, covering up my head with my arms. 

“You do that a lot,” Marco chuckles in that cute tone of voice you can just hear the grin in.  “See, that’s why I can’t take your asshole gig seriously.  You act like you’re the coolest cat on the block and then –”  His voice falters, softening abruptly.  “Then you laugh at my terrible sense of humor as _adorably_ as that.”

I attempt to answer him, I really do – I even get as far as to lift my head from my arms, to look up at him for a split second between laughter.  It doesn’t do anything to help my concentration – it’s the goddamned Cocoa-Eyes.  He’s giving me the Cocoa-Eyes.  A bizarre, fluttery feeling tickles my stomach, and I burst into laughter again with a new fervor. 

“He’ll be here for a while,” I hear Marco tell them over my giggling.  “Just let him get it all out.  He’ll… he’ll be fine.  And much happier.”

“Whatever you say, man.”  Connie sounds like he’s in a state of awe.  “I haven’t heard Jean laugh this hard since, like, middle school.  Damn, son.”

“You two are loved and shipped,” Sasha says sincerely, causing me to explode into another peal of laughter. 

“Oh, no, look at what you’ve done,” Marco chides playfully.  “Off with you two. 

“Enjoy yourselves, boys,” Sasha says, in her breezy, evil tone.  “I’ll be in the kitchens if you need me…  Just grab Connie…”

And then I am alone. 

Now, laughing fits certainly are bizarre things.  When surrounded by people trying to engage in conversations with you and then judging so hard when you can’t, it’s the worst of things, because you cannot physically do anything about your laughter.  But, because of good old human adaptation and social skills, the moment that everyone falls silent and does nothing, I get the feeling that I’m alone.  All alone.  Laughing like a weird loner.  And so the laughter stops. 

Embarrassed, I peek up at Marco, only to wish I hadn’t. 

 _It’s worse than Cocoa-Eyes._   I freak out internally, hiding my face, my confused blush.  _So much worse than Cocoa-Eyes._

I stood a chance against his heart-melting Cocoa-Eyes.  At least I had a scrap of dignity to cling to.  But these beautiful monstrosities, these cesspools of adorable?  I don’t stand a chance.  My only hope is to cower and hope they go away. 

“You’re adorable when you’re flustered.”  Marco pokes my arm, prompting another furtive glance up at him.  “Come on out of your arms, Jean.  This stew looks and smells delicious.”

“Yeah, yeah, _stewosexual_ ,” I mock, still not daring to look up at his eyes.  “You are a dork, good sir.”

“I’ll have you know it practically had you rolling on the ground,” Marco lilts haughtily, leaning forward and squishing his cheeks again.  “It’s okay to laugh at my bad jokes, you know.  Not that much of a faux-pas when I’m around.”

“Oh, yeah?  Why’s that, Freckles?”

“Because I laugh at yours.”  Marco giggles, but waits no longer to turn to his soup.  “What sort of stew is this, I wonder?  Smells like beef gravy, but… is that beef?  _Mmm_.  Smells so good.”

“Sash is a big bag of dicks, but damn, can she make good food.”  I steal a sly glance towards him, pleased and displeased to see he’s now enraptured by the food before him.  “You can always ask her and subject us to more of her misery, but, y’know, I’d prefer it if you just got surprised.”

Marco glances up at me, his eyes soft as the smile tugging at his lips.  “Alright, Jean.  I wonder why she bought us these – _oh_.”

He drops the yogurt tube Sasha had brought for him (probably out of her personal store of childish goodies) as if it had burnt him.  A deep blush floods his cheeks.  Sighing nervously, Marco smushes at his face with the palm of his hand, glancing spitefully towards the yogurt stick.

Curious, I pick mine up, and flip it over.  My stomach turns to ice.  Very, very gingerly, I lay the yogurt stick, labelled “Marco’s D” in Sasha’s handwriting, back down on the tray and bury my head in my hands. 

“God, man,” I groan.  “Sorry – they’ve got this obsession – they think I need a social life.”

“Well,” he reasons quietly from inside his hands, “you sound like you are quite the hermit, Jean.”

Feeling self-conscious, I shrug.  “I have my reasons, Freckles.” 

“And I’m not here to pass judgment on them.”  Marco sinks to the table, laying his chin on the silver metal and staring up at me.   I swear I can see my own reflection is his eyes.  “C’mon, Jean, come on out of your hole.  Let’s eat and talk about what” – his voice gets louder – “ _absolutely terrible friends you have_.”

Connie’s waiter’s notebook hits Marco upside the head. 

Laughing, Marco scoops it up off the floor and sets it at the corner of the table for Connie to pick up whenever he makes his next round.  As quickly as it’d flared up, my resentment of our uncouth waiter trickles off.  It’s got absolutely nothing to do with how great Marco looks when he laughs. 

I need his boy to be my model. 

“You know,” I say shyly, “all jokes aside, I’d really like it if you modelled for me.  Even if it’s only, like, a hand or something.  I think… I think I can capture you pretty well.”

“Oh, yeah?”  He grins down at his soup, picking up a spoon only to toy with the broth.  “…Well… I can probably arrange something…  My dad wouldn’t be able to hear a word of it, but… maybe… I could?”

I nearly drop my spoon.  My heart soars with delight, my pulse rattling in my chest.  Grinning radiantly, I lean forward, propping up my head on my hands.  The hot, fragrant steam of the stew billows around my face, and that somehow makes me even happier. 

“Marco,” I say, “I think you’re –”

“Jean.  _Fucking_.  Kirschtein.”

Midsentence, my blood runs cold.  The butterflies in my stomach fall dead.  Slamming my mouth shut, I whip my head towards the doorway, lips peeling back in a snarl.  An ingot of hatred simmers in my gut, growing hotter and hotter with each step Jaeger takes forward. 

“What do you want, shitbag?” I spit, my hands furling into fists. 

“So, it’s true then?”  Eren bares his teeth in a maniac grin, slamming his hands down on the table.  He literally quivers with rage, trembling, as if he’s barely holding back his anger. 

Nervously, Marco laughs, glancing from him to me.  I watch him shrink up on himself in my periphery.  _Good.  Get out of Eren’s way, Marco, you don’t need to get hurt._

I clench my fist around my spoon, yearning for it to be instead a nice steak knife.  “What the hell are you talking about?”

Eren slams a fist down on the table, growling like an animal.  “You’re a fucking homosexual after all?  After everything that happened?”

Snarling, I slam the butt of my spoon into the table next to his hand, causing Marco to squeak fearfully.  “No, you dickwad!” I snap, flexing in preparation for a fight.  “I ain’t gay!  You know that better than anyone, Jaeger!”

“ _Don’t you dare pull the high-and-mighty on me, Kirschtein,_ ” Jaeger whispers through gritted teeth, his eyes blown wide but his pupils mere pinpoints in the emerald.  “How fucking dare you.  How.  Fucking.  Dare.  You.”

“Is this about Armin?”  I bolt to my feet, looming above him.  “It is, ain’t it?  News flash, Eren” – I stick my face so close to his that our noses almost touch – “it’s your goddamned fault he’s dead.  Not mine.”

“You fuck!” Eren howls, lifting his fists into a ready position.  “How dare you be gay!  It’s your fault, all your fault, why couldn’t you have just…  Just…”  With another yowl of rage, Eren slams both hands on the table, spilling Marco’s soup into his lap.  “How dare you be gay for this freckled little shit!”

“ _What did you call Marco?_ ”  I grab him by the front of his shirt, my vision going red with anger.  My breath escapes in feral pants, and I’m sure I’m practically frothing.  “Repeat.  _Now_.”

“Was Armin not good enough for you?”  A furious tear streaks down Eren’s cheek.  He grabs my hands and rips me off of him, throwing me backwards into the booth like I’m disgusting to him.  “Was your… your pansy of a dick too good for him?  What makes this fucker any better than him?  Why can’t you have been gay for him, huh?  Why did you choose if he lived or died?  What gave you the right?”

I hurl my spoon towards the wall – Marco again yelps, but I hardly pay him any attention.  “Why did you torture your best friend to the point of suicide, Eren?”  I grab his forearm and bring his face so close to mine, I can feel his breath on my nose.  “Don’t you fucking dare pin that on me.  _It’s your fault_.”

Eren gasps as if I’d punched him and rips his arm from my grasp.  He stumbles backwards, tripping over a chair, and shakes his head at me.  His eyes hold a candid blend of hatred directed towards me and himself.  Another tear spills from his eye. 

“How dare you talk about Armin like that,” Eren whispers, his voice shuddering, on the edge of tears.  “Don’t you talk about Armin like that.”

I stare down at him, quivering with anger now myself.  How dare I?!  How dare he!  Storming in here in a whirl of fury, causing a scene, messing up my fucking dinner with Marco.  My mouth moves to form words of anger, but I’m so fucking past words.  I glare down at him, breathing heavier and heavier, my fists clenching.  A low growl starts in the back of my throat, and I prepare to hurl myself at him, taking the first step forward and raising my fists. 

“Whoa, whoa!”  Suddenly, freckles.  “Jean!  Calm down, Jean.  Calm.”  A hand lands on my bicep, apply a gentle but unrelenting pressure.  “Back up.  Back up.”

“Fuck you,” I hiss down at Jaeger, struggling against Marco even as he drags me backwards, still saying soothing words, massaging my back and giving me a big hug around the torso.  “Fuck.  You.  Fuck you, fuck you, _fuck you_ …”

“It’s your fault!” Eren roars, collapsing into sobs.  “You stole my best friend!  _You killed Armin!_ ”

“Jean,” Marco cautions, giving me another hug from behind.  “Let it go.  Breathe.  Breathe.  Calm down.  He’s not worth it, Jean.  Come on.  Come on.  Let’s go.”

And, as Marco squeezes his arms around my ribs, his face buried in my shoulder blade, I feel like I will.  I let a long breath out, and slowly shut my eyes. 

“You little pussy,” Eren snivels, wiping his nose, weeping like an old woman.  “You lying little _faggot_.”

That magic word.  That magic word.  A shock tingles down my spine – how can he even be that terrible a person to even say that, after all the trouble it’s caused him?  Caused me?  Caused _Armin?!_

The shock doesn’t last long.  My fists curl, and I rip free from Marco.  “ _You –_ ”

“Jean!” Marco snaps, placing a hand against my chest and shoving me backwards. 

Staggering, I turn my gaze to him, caring not that I’m still trembling with hatred, caring not that my eyes must be as hot with fury as coal, caring not that I could spook the gentle freckled creature with the tenacity of all my fenced-in emotion.  Turns out, I don’t need to fret over Marco, because I see that same anger reflected there in his eyes – calm, steely, cold as ice, but just as potent, and not at all focused upon me. 

Marco is angry.  Marco is very, very angry.

I step down from the playing field.  Carefully keeping my gaze locked on Marco, even as he whirls around to face Eren, I back away, stunned by his sudden assumption of authority. 

 _Stunned_.  Yes, that’s it, that’s gotta be it.  _Stunned_.

Marco crosses his arms over his chest, bristling, and glares down at Eren with all the might of an angry god.  “I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, to be honest.  But you’ve gone and ruined the night for everyone in this room.  Thanks for that, asshole.  And calling Jean a ‘faggot’?  You’re a waste of oxygen.”  Marco’s glower grows more powerful.  I edge a bit further back.  “ _I_ am a faggot, _I’ll have you know_ , and I don’t” – Marco leans forward menacingly, looming over Eren with eyes shadowed – “ _at all_ like you using it as an insult.  Do you think it’s an insult, Eren?  Hmm?”

Numbly, Eren shakes his head, mumbling an incoherent negative. 

“Then don’t treat it like a disease.”  One of Marco’s eyebrows snaps up into a perfect arch.  “Secondly, Jean is one-hundred percent straight, and if you ever give him or anyone else shit for their sexuality again, you will have me to answer to.  Are we clear?”

“What are you, his mom?” Eren mutters, scowling with hunched shoulders and a sneer.

“What are you?”  Marco’s eyes are like blades of ice.  “A bastard that preys in family restaurants?”

Eren crosses his arms over himself defensively.  “Look, man, I’m sorry for ruining your date – um, I mean, outing – with Jean.  But that man is a thousand times shittier than I am.”

Marco nods once, but it doesn’t seem to me that Eren’s forgiven.  “We disagree there.  Get out.  I’ll pay for your damages this time, but don’t ever let me see your face again.  Are we understood?”

Eren nods once again, mumbling.  Seeming satisfied, Marco tilts his head back towards me.  The tension leaves my shoulders as his anger evaporates in a single glance my direction, melting into a tender-hearted smile.  Jaeger bolts the moment Marco turns his back, but neither of us give him a second glance – Connie shouts insults after him, and I think Sasha, too, but I don’t bother with them, either.

“You okay?” Marco asks, laying a hand on my forearm.  “You still seem pretty strung up.”

I shove my hands into my pockets, blushing beet red as people’s glares turn away from Eren and onto me.  “Sorry, I – um – I guess I sort of – sorry.”

Marco studies me, his brown eyes resembling cocoa again.  A fragile smile takes hold of his lips – it’s soft and understanding, different from the brashly happy ones he usually pulls.  “Alright.  Let me talk with the manager and pay, and I’ll meet you outside.  Remember, you’re my ride home, so don’t think about running off.  Then, we’ll talk, alright?”

Guilt replaces any awkwardness.  “Hey, hey, no, I fucked up, I’ll –”

“Jean.”  Marco places his hands over mine.  Platonically.  _Platonically_.  “No disrespect intended, but get the hell outside and wait for me.  Take a moment to calm down.  Alright?” 

Numbly, I nod.  “Alright.  Sorry, Marco.”

“Hey, it’s fine.”  He cuffs me gently, then moves to push the hair from my face.  “Get outta here, Jean, before a domestic family slits your throat.”

Unable to argue further, I swiftly dart from the restaurant, making a break for the single available bench.  People shoot me dirty looks and mutter insults, and employees sprint towards the Diner Room.  From behind me, I hear Marco talking nervously in a higher pitch than usual, and more guilt stabs me through the gut. 

Stupid Jaeger.  Stupid, stupid, shit-faced Jaeger.

Poor Marco. 

The air outside tastes significantly damper than it had from inside of the Peppered Potato.  I sniff a few times awkwardly, wondering if there’s rain coming in later tonight.  Without pondering upon it long, I double over on my bench, holding my head in my hands.  A low groan echoes up from the pit of my stomach. 

“Goddammit,” I growl.  “Goddammit, goddammit…”

Eren hadn’t just ripped off the stitches holding shut the gaping wound in my side.  He’d poured fucking salt in the wound after a spritzing of lemon juice. 

_Was Armin not good enough for you?_

_How fucking dare you._

_You killed Armin!_

My shoulders shake.  I’m thankful that no one is really around, no one is paying attention to lonely old me, because my frustrated growls degrade into soft, keening noises.  The noises, though they rasp from my own chest, are unknown to me – it sounds as if someone else is using my voicebox, someone else is forcing my throat to make sounds that don’t seem human. 

A hand rests on my shoulder.  A warm body slides onto the bench besides me.  A pair of arms wrap around my shoulders, cuddling me close to a beating heart. 

“Oh, Jean,” Sasha sighs.  “C’mon, man.  Get it out.  Get it out.  It’s okay.”

“’S my fault, Sash,” I choke.  “’E’s right.  ’E’s right.  Fuck, Sash, it’s my fault.”

“Oh, Jean, I have to go back to work, sweet Junny-Bun, but I would hold you forever if I could.”  She pets at my hair, and presses a kiss to the top of my head, giving me a friendly squeeze.  “Marco just walked through the doors, so come on, buck up for Bae.  He’s gonna need an explanation.”

“No, not if you’re not up to it.”  Marco drops down on my other side.  “And certainly not here.  I’ve got him, Sasha.”

“Alright, Freckles…,” Sasha sighs.  She presses another kiss to the top of my head.  “Hurt my Bunny’s feelings and I will hunt you down, Marco.  Bye, Jean, we’ll talk later.”

“’Kay… bye.”  I release her miserably, using the movement to rub underneath my eyes furtively.  Sheepishly, I turn my gaze to Marco – his brown eyes are still caught in that beautiful, drowning-in-cocoa haze.  “I guess you want an explanation, huh?”

Marco’s arms replace Sasha’s around me.  Platonically.  He holds me tight, one of his hands reaching up to wipe away my tears.  “I’d like it, yes, but you don’t have to.”

I release a shuddering sigh, and feel myself relaxing in Marco’s embrace.  “It’s sort of an emotional story.  I’ll probably get even blubberier.”

“Then take me somewhere in this city that you only know.”  His gentle smile fills my gaze.  “Some nook or cranny made just for you.  Or your favorite place to take photos, or – something.  Then you can tell me and not have to worry about anything.  Alright, Jean?”

I nod meekly.  “Okay.  …You sure you don’t just wanna… go home?”

Marco stares at me levelly.  “We both know that would be the most _awkward_ drive back ever.  Besides, I’ve got some things I need to say, too.  …I definitely could’ve come out of the closet in a more eloquent way, huh?”

“Wha…?”  I blink a few times, remembering the cold anger in Marco’s eyes as he’d declared himself to be a _faggot_.  “Oh.  Oh, right.”

He peeks at me shyly through his lashes.  “…You’re not mad, are you?”

“A bit pissed that you lied to me about being stewosexual, but nah, not really.”  I shrug weakly against him.  “I got nothing against gays, man.  Kinda figured it out.  And, I mean, you dealt with pissed Jean and pissed Jaeger-dickhead, so I can’t complain but so much.”

“Okay.”  Marco releases a puff of breath, as if he’d been worried about my response, but there’s still an element of hesitance in his air, as if he’s waiting for something.  “…Alright, Jean.  Let’s get you on your feet, okay?  Let’s just drive.”

I let him help me to my feet, and, for a mere second, as Marco gives me another comforting hug, my heavy heart warms.  Without thinking much about it, I hug him back. 

 

* * *

 

Marco hardly even flinches as we go through the alley.  I can tell he’s frightened.  I can tell he’s beyond frightened.  But even as the kid gives us what would be a jumpscare by appearing suddenly in the window, Marco keeps his head held high.  With a quivering lip, of course, but held high.  Every now and then, he’ll reach over and wrap his jacket tighter around me, like a nervous habit. 

I’m too preoccupied with my thoughts to really think about that. 

 

* * *

 

Silence, I realize, can be terrifying. 

Marco’s silence, especially. 

I wonder if he’s judging me.  I wonder if he’s trying to figure out what’s got me so riled up.  I wonder if, as he follows me up the old, molding staircase of this old, molding house, he thinks I’ve gone bonkers.  I expect a question, I expect a passing remark, or… something, other than his silence.  It makes me uncomfortable. 

At the same time, I’m glad I don’t have to deal with explanations quite yet.  The quiet between us is merciful.  It’s infinite and yet finite, for I know that, although these brief seconds feel full and whole and real, the anxiety and anticipation of what is surely on its way knots my stomach and makes me painfully aware of the tick, tick, tick of the old, broken clock hanging lopsidedly upon the wall.  I don’t want to explain myself, I don’t want to end this silence, but, for some reason, that mindset only seems to cause the clock to tick faster. 

He doesn’t comment as I lead him to a bedroom on the second floor.  He doesn’t remark at the broken-down state of the house.  He follows in silence as I throw open the window and clamber out onto the roof.  His eyes grow wide as I hold a hand out to him, wider as he accepts it, wider still as I pull him forwards until he’s beside me, but still, he says nothing. 

“Watch your footing,” I tell him, breaking the silence with reluctance, but unwilling to see Marco tumble off the roof.  Releasing his hand, I creep towards the edge of the shingles.  I stall for a few more seconds, then launch myself off the roof. 

“Jean!” Marco cries, his feet slipping over the roof as he stumbles forward.  “Are you – God, don’t scare me like that!”

I heave myself closer towards the trunk of the tree right next to the edge of the roof, testing my weight on the oak’s thick limbs, and flash him a crooked grin.  My palms are haggard and stinging from the tree’s bark, but he never has to know that.  “There, there, Freckles.  Just jump and grab a branch.  It’s sturdier than it looks.”

Marco hesitates for a moment longer.  Mumbling a curse beneath his breath, he backs up, and flings himself off the edge of the roof like a freckled flying squirrel. 

His hands catch on a branch lower than mine, but he doesn’t have anywhere near the amount of trouble pulling himself onto the limb.  I watch him as he scales the tree fluidly, hoisting himself up onto a perch beside me.  Of course he’d be able to climb trees like a pro, considering how muscled those arms are. 

“Is this where you come for solitude?” Marco asks quietly.  “This tree in this house?”

“Yeah, well.”  I shrug, cheeks flushing.  “You asked for a place just for me.  And for you now, too, I guess.  I usually go a bit higher up, though.”

“Then let’s.”  Marco frowns, scanning the top branches.  “I have to say, I don’t see any route upwards.  Can you lead the way?”

“Sure thing.”  As I shift on my branch, I clear my throat, glancing self-consciously back at him.  “Just so you know, we didn’t break into this place.  My stepmom bought this years ago, and she’s claimed she’s going to fix it up and sell it.”

“Why hasn’t she done it yet?”

“Oh, she doesn’t want to be the one doing it.”  I squeeze between two branches, shimmying up the trunk, watching Marco as he follows my footsteps.  “She wants my dad to do the heavy-lifting.  He doesn’t want anything to do with this place, but she’s adamant, so it just sits here.”  My hand lands upon the back of the branch I always sit upon, and I heave myself up on the limb.  “Kind of lonely.  But hey, I won’t complain.”

“I imagine it’d look amazing if it ever got fixed up.”  Marco sifts himself onto a branch just a tad lower than me.  “Oh, wow.  It looks amazing _now_.  Wow.”

I stare at him for a moment longer, my eyes tracing around his parted lips, his wide eyes, before I stare off to the horizon. 

The sun is yawning over the James River like a tired cat, long shafts of light cast before it as stretches, tails of pink tossed up towards the sky.  Richmond buildings painted dusky black stand against the vivid gold.  The budding leaves catch and refract the dying sun’s light, tiny flower blossoms turned even pinker. 

“This is my favorite place in all of Richmond.”  I lean against the trunk of the tree – usually, with most trees, your back gets dirty and nasty and little chunks of bark trickle down your back, but I’ve been coming here for so long it doesn’t have any wood to shed.  “Beautiful, yeah?”

Marco shakes his head, mouth round with awe.  “How come I never saw any photos of this in your portfolios, Jean?  You’d think you… would want to…”

I shrug, trying to dislodge the uncomfortable feeling lodged in my gut.  “I dunno.  I’ve tried.  But… this place seems too special for a lens, you know?  Like, it’s mine.  I don’t want anyone else to see it.  But even when I do, it just feels incomplete.  Wrong.  I can’t capture it.”

“Oh.”  He thinks for a second, then nods.  “I feel that way too, sometimes, when I’m trying to describe something.  See, I… I really like to write.”  As if he’s embarrassed, Marco bows his head, blushing.  “I like writing.”

“Makes sense you’d like Bertholt, then.”  I pluck a new-leaf from a branch to chuck towards the ground, but, feeling a bit guilty of stripping my tree, I put it back and issue a silent apology.  “I mean, the guy’s either gonna be a kindergarten teacher or an English professor – one or the other, he hasn’t decided.”

“An English professor?”  Marco’s voice catches, and I pretend not to notice the change in his eyes.   “That… that sounds very, very… nice.”

He doesn’t seem to want to expand, so I don’t force him to.  Instead, I clear my throat and shake my head, bracing myself for the worst.  “So, I guess I should tell you about Armin.”

“You don’t have to.” 

“Yeah, I do.”  I thrust my head back against the tree, closing my eyes, swallowing.  “So, um.  Where to begin.”

“The beginning is always a good place to begin.”  Though it sounds like it could me morphed into a venomously sarcastic phrase, Marco says it softly, gently, with quiet understanding.  “If you’re sure, that is.”

“I’m sure, Bodt.”  A smile quirks my lips.  “…Well, I guess…  Look, Eren and I used to be best friends, okay?  We’ve known each other since I was eight – I was new at school, and I didn’t really know anyone, and he took me under his wing.  Eren is – and was – weirdly territorial with his adopted sister, Mikasa, and Armin, his best friend.  I sorta got into that group for a long time.  Like, Eren and I, we were inseparable, because we were both the only real assholes in the school, and so we stuck it through each other’s moodiness and anger problems.”

Marco gnaws at his lower lip, his eyebrow puckering.  “That didn’t seem to be what was happening out there.  What changed?”

“Nothing.”  I curl up in on myself, resting my chin on my knees.  “I mean, not for a long time.  We all grew up together.  Armin was always a bit of a black sheep – Eren pampered him, and he was always trying to keep up with the rest of us.  We were, you know, rough and tumble boys that were already streaking up and down the streets of Richmond at young ages.  Bound to get into trouble.  Mikasa kept us off drugs, and Armin, that little blonde nerd, kept our grades decent.”

“Mikasa was…?” 

I shudder.  “Scary, yet hot.  Mostly scary.”

Marco seems to stomach a laugh, his upper lip curling somewhat.  “Okay.  Got it.  I suppose I’ll know her if I see her.”

“Definitely.”  I chuckle.  “Anyway, towards the end of high school, Armin began acting… weird.  I mean, weirder than normal – the kid was always doing some bizarre academic club or another.  But he started acting awkward around me, which was odd, ‘cause we’d known each other since we were itty squealing things.  Even got to the point where he’d avoid me in the hallways.  Got real blushy when I was around, always scampering off for some reason or another.”

Marco grimaces.  “Ah.  I’ve been there.”

“Huh.”  I frown at him, not quite comprehending his meaning.  “…Anyway, so, when we got out of high school, Armin was the only one of us all that immediately went into college.  Eren and I waited a while to, like, live life while we still were young or some shit.  I didn’t really think that through, honestly.  But – things got really bad in there.  I was to thickheaded to see that Armin had a motherfucking _huge_ crush on me, and that he’d had it for a while.”

Without a word, Marco reaches over and squeezes my shoulder, prompting me onwards without saying a thing. 

“So, it was awkward and I couldn’t figure out why.  I got frustrated, so I turned to Jaeger, said that his best friend in all the world was acting weird, and I told him to figure it out.  And, apparently, he did, and Eren, being the dick he is and having his head up his ass, was not supportive of his friend’s sexuality.  Or maybe he was – he claims he was, but he sure as hell wasn’t great at showing it, then.”

“That…”  Marco shakes his head in a way that leads me to believe he’s got experience in the sort of stuff I’m talking about.  “Jean… was Armin… a strong boy?  Or was he… was he emotionally vulnerable?”

Something deep inside me pangs at his wording – calling Armin weak is something no one would ever have the balls to do, and it’s strangely touching Marco knows that without ever having met him.  “Emotionally vulnerable.”

“That… was not a smart thing to do.”  He’s hesitant to speak.  “If Eren was the first one that Armin came out to, and he was met with ridicule – oh, God, poor boy.”

“Now you see why I hate him,” I sigh, closing my eyes.  “’Course, I didn’t help much, either.  Armin would – way I understand it, he was always under a lot of pressure with Eren whenever they were together, but it got a lot worst whenever I was around.  Apparently, it was harmless teasing, but – whatever.  Didn’t get across the way, I guess.  Me, I was always trying to decide if I was ignoring him or trying to figure out why he’d abandoned me suddenly.  I felt left out, and – I responded pretty shittily to it.”

“You didn’t know what was going on.”

“Maybe,” I relent, “but it’s still… I still had something to do with it.  Marco, he – he had such a future ahead of him.  Kid was going places.  But – but Eren and I both, we stunted him.  Eren tortured him with… with _playful jibes_ , calling him _faggot_ and _gay_ and _cocksucker_ and all of that and – and – even if it was just a joke, it – I can’t believe he would –”

“That’s why you acted the way you did in that bar,” Marco realizes, voice soft.  “Why you got angry and snapped.”

“Um, I… I guess so?”  I frown, struggling to remember.  “But, whatever.  Somewhere along the way, it and all of the stress from school got to him, and… it was too much.”  Burying my head in my hands, I release a shaky exhale, leaning into Marco’s hand for support.  “Sasha found him.  I remember – I remember that I was fooling around with Eren, and his phone had died, so Sasha called me and – she was screaming – about – about getting an ambulance, about the blood – so much blood…”

Tears sting my eyes.  I stare down at my hands, recalling her shrieks, Eren’s hysterical cries, the way I’d tried to shove through the cops barring the doorway to his apartment, the awful dropping sensation when a policewoman held my hands in hers and told us that he’d… he’d been dead when they’d arrived. 

I feel Marco stir beneath me.  As he moves closer, he groans low in his throat – it’s sad more than _pitying_ , as if he’s sad for Armin, not pitying me.  He’s too smart for that, too perfect to be pitying me, just perfect enough to know that pity is the last thing I want right now.  I just want a hug.  And Marco… is a perfect human being.

His arms wrap around me like a steel cage, reaching up and pulling me down towards him.  The puff of his breath warms my flannel’s collar, and, with each one of my unsteady exhales, his nose bumps against my neck.  His heart thumps softly in his chest, thudding through me with its constant, steady rhythm.  I lean closer towards the pulse of that heart, trying to calm the splutter and choke in my chest by matching my heartbeat with his. 

“Oh, Jean,” Marco sighs.  He cradles my head against his chest, stroking at my hair.  “Jean.  I suppose – I suppose that wasn’t very fun, huh?”

“Understatement.”  Refusing to allow tears to spread, I bury my face in his shoulder, and almost – almost – spill the rest of the story, tell him why it was so… triggering.  But then he’d want to know everything.  One step at a time.  Just one step for tonight.

“How long ago, Jean?”

“Five years.”  I realize how that pathetic that sounds and I stutter onwards.  “I mean, we were together for like a decade, and then – it was my fault.  Most of the time, I’m fine.  It was a long time ago.  I’ve gotten over it, I have, but – well – and now Jaeger’s gone and opened up all my wounds and…  I’m not a sniveling loser, I swear.” 

“No,” Marco agrees, slowly rocking me from side to side, “you’re not.  I think – I think you just made an amateur’s mistake with grief.  Tell me, Jean, did you let yourself grieve over Armin properly?  Did you let all of your resentment and guilt leave you?”

“Uh… I guess not?”

“There lies your problem.”  His grip around me tightens.  “This won’t be the last time you’ll hurt because of Armin, Jean.  Do you blame Eren for it?  Or yourself?”

I focus for a few more moments on Marco’s breathing beneath me, trying to match its calming tempo.  “A bit of both, I guess…  Eren was the one that drove him crazy, but I… I should’ve been there for him.  I should’ve.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Marco sighs.  “Oh, Jean.  Look, I know you probably don’t want to hear this, least of all from me – I’ve only known you for a couple of weeks, and you hardly know me, but…” 

I brace myself for the inevitable _I’m sorry_ from him.

“Jean, it’s time for you to forgive yourself and Eren about all that.”

“…What?”

“You heard me.”  Marco’s voice is firm yet also as gentle as the fingers massaging my back.  “Trust me when I say this stuff only gets worse if you allow it to accumulate, the self-blame, the depression – you lose yourself.”  His arms constrict around me with a shudder in his voice.  “And you’re too _amazing_ a person to get lost.  I don’t want…”  He pauses, taking the time to gently twirl my hair around his finger.  “So many people would be hurt if you lost yourself, Jean.  Krista’d hurt.  Ymir’d hurt.  Sasha.  Connie.  _I’d_ hurt.  Even Eren would be unhappy, probably.  So don’t do it.”

The same silence that ghosted alongside us as we climbed up the staircase of this old house.  I don’t know how to respond – the wrong answer will bring awkwardness to Marco, will make him withdrawn, unwilling to share his opinions, to show me his heart like he’s doing now, but… I don’t want to be treated like I’m a little puppy for him to educate.  Like an old car lying abandoned in a garage, waiting to be fixed. 

“…But there’s no hurry.  You take your own pace, Jean.  You go as slow or as fast as you need.  I am and will be right here.”

A blush heats my cheeks, and I’m certain those words will echo back in my thoughts tonight as I try to sleep – whatever, I’ll deal with them then, now it’s time for sass.  “You’ll be in this tree?  Really?  Why?”

“Shut up, Jon-Bon.”  His hold slackens around me slightly, becoming less needy, more comforting.  “I’m being completely serious.”

“So am I when I say this.”  I nestle against his chest.  “ _Thanks_.  You are a perfect human being.”  A shivering breath escapes my lips, and my fingers knot around his hoodie.  “Better than I deserve.  …You never got to eat Sasha’s stew, did you?”

“It’s okay.”  Marco squeezes me tight again, nearly pulling me off my branch.  “Right now, you matter more than her cooking.”

“She’s probably saved that savory meal for us,” I cajole, glancing up at him through my eyelashes.  “You’re seriously going to stay up here in a tree instead of eating it?  Gonna hurt her feelings, Bodt.”

“I am,” Marco agrees, “because I’m not moving, and neither are you.  A few more minutes, Jean.  Calm yourself down completely.  Then we can do whatever you like.”

“Ugh, fine,” I groan, secretly glad he insists – pulling a brave face is, to say the least, not easy, especially with my tendency to blurt out things around Marco.  Going the rest of the night in this mood would be miserable for the two of us. 

So instead, I curl up, ignoring the threat that falling off of my limb might create, ignoring our staggering height, ignoring even the spike in Marco’s otherwise steady heartbeat when I pull him close to me like a stuffed animal to cuddle.  I close my eyes for just a few more minutes, allowing my thoughts to carry me into safer places, held gingerly in Marco’s capable arms. 

It’s nice, in Marco’s embrace.  My mind still spins and whirls a bit, thinking of horrible things I don’t want to dwell on any longer, but I manage to block most of it out with him.  _Don’t focus on your brain_ , I chastise.  _Brains are stupid.  Focus on his heartbeat.  That thu-thunk sound in his chest.  Focus on his warmth, his breathing, his arms around you_. 

Before I know it, I’ve fallen asleep in Marco’s embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Peppered Potato is a fictional place, my friend, but I've been to restaurants like it in cities with similar feels as Richmond. However, on West Cary Street (the place where my fictional restaurant is located) does have an Irvin's Salon, which is ironic in its own manner, I believe. 
> 
> Right about now is where I'd like to apologize for anything wrong I comprehend about Richmond, if I've got any readers that know the place well. I mean, I love it in Richmond, and I'm fairly familiar with it, but I don't live there and I never have. 
> 
> Also, thank you to all those that have been so very, very loyal and supportive! You all just make this so enjoyable, and I love even all of those that never say anything -- but those that do comment, I love you too! Just... gah, I love you all way too much, and it's very unprofessional of me, I know, but... um... you make me so happy.
> 
> Do you like long chapters like this? Let me know!


	8. Nightmares and Creaky Gates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean is Jean and Marco is Marco, and then Jean realizes something about himself that has to do with Marco...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously am so happy to reach this place. After this chapter, things get... good?
> 
> Let's go with good.

I hadn’t expected the nightmares.  I haven’t had them in so long… I suppose I’d assumed they’d left for good.  Something, I presume, has triggered them. 

_The air stings my lungs, biting at the inside of my throat, burning my nose, my mouth, my eyes.  My heart pounds in my chest – I have to run far, far away.  Where?  Where can I run?_

_The jumble of dreams turns the viciously snapping fire around me into sensual, enchanting dancing, turning my feet to lead – I can’t run, I can’t.  The flames encroach, getting closer and closer, but I’m still frozen, staring up at their flickering crowns.  They leap forward and lap close to my nose, and their swirling ashes choke in my throat.  My heart hammers.  I gasp for air._

_I need to run.  I need to run._

_A tear runs down my cheek before it gets swallowed by the heat of the flames._

_I need to run._

_I can’t.  I can’t run._

_I can’t run._

_Suddenly, there I am, walking in the room, shivering – I can’t control my own body, I feel trapped.  I know this door swinging open, I know this front room, I know the light fixture shining dimly in the night.  I don’t want to see this again.  I want to run._

_I can’t.  I can’t run.  I’m utterly powerless – I can only watch._

_The blood pools over the floor in two untidy puddles on the hardwood and splattered against the wall.  I feel my own throat strain as if I’m screaming, but I can’t hear, I can’t hear a thing.  Powerful arms close around me, holding me back as I strain with every muscle in my body, throwing my weight forward.  I scream.  I want to shake them until they move.  Until they answer their name.  Until they come back._

_Dead, cold eyes follow me, the sunken, glazed pupils watching me as I’m dragged out.  A mad smile spreads slowly over the corpse’s face, halfway between a grin and a grimace.  The blood oozes towards me, flowing and rippling in one uniformed mass over the floor, glinting in the darkness._

_My dream switches focus for a half a second, and, suddenly, I’m stroking a tiny grey muzzle.  It’s soft and velvety beneath my fingers, and the nostrils puff calmingly, blowing into my face.  The horse.  That one._

_Before I can dwell long upon that one horse, I’m ripped from that calm reality and into another more hectic one – this of another horse, racing towards me in a flurry of hooves, its eyes boiling in the darkness and its hooves slamming into the earth like heavy spades.  A shrill shriek pierces the air.  It tosses its head back, rearing on its hind legs upon seeing me._

_A beast from hell.  That’s what it looks like, silhouetted against the flame, a stallion with the blackest coat and rolling eyes, its teeth yellow in the firelight.  As I cast my hand up and wince away as the hooves come down, only one thought flickers through my mind._

_How could she have ever gone back for you?_

I awaken swaddled by my own blankets, gasping for breath, covered from head to toe in sweat.  Like a bullet being fired, my pulse slams into overdrive, hammering in my heart like I’ve been shot in the chest with adrenaline.  I open my eyes to darkness. 

No.  No.

My arms and legs flail helplessly about.  I try to push off my covers, claw them off, roll myself over so that I can breathe, but it doesn’t work.  With every move I make, I seem to sink further into my beanbag.  Heart like a drumbeat in my ear, I struggle, writhing around in my cocoon until my face is peeking from the blankets. 

I gasp at the air like it’s the first I’ve had in years.  Cool and refreshing against my face and in my throat, it chases away the nightmares of the past.  Almost.  It almost does. 

I bite my lip hard, studying the ceiling intensely as I do.  Hitched breaths catch in my chest, but I refuse to allow them to become audible.  My eyes sting.  Not again, goddammit.  I am over the nightmares.  I am fucking _over them_. 

Knowing very well how these things work, I’m aware that I should just roll over and get back to sleep, and that I won’t remember any of this tomorrow morning if I do.  But I can’t.  I’m too freaked out, too overstimulated, checking every corner in the dark, unfriendly living room for demon-eyed horses. 

It’s stupid. 

It’s so, so stupid. 

Feeling like an eight year old, I curl in on myself, eyeing the shadows distrustfully.  I feel trapped and alone, without even Connie or Sasha to turn to – they’d comfort me, but they know absolutely nothing about anything before Armin.  A fear of horses would be laughable to them.  Anyone would find a horse-phobia hilarious. 

Well, that’s not true.  I know one person who doesn’t. 

With shaking hands, I lunge for my phone, pulling it quickly beneath my swaddle of blankets. 

 

**To: My Future Model >> Hey man u up**

Fidgeting nervously, I glance at the clock.  He’s probably not.  After all, he and I both have to get up tomorrow morning at some point, right?

Miraculously, my screen lights up and the phone buzzes in my hands.  Marco’s profile picture, a particularly stunning selfie of his that I’d stolen, appears. 

 

**From: My Future Model >>Unfortunately, yeah.  Having troubles sleeping.**

**To: My Future Model >>me 2 bot me 2  
** **> >watchu doin**

**From: My Future Model >>Taking the time to be productive, actually.  Because I don’t do enough math during the holy hours of the day, I guess. **  
 **> >But why are you up**  
 **> >Don’t you have work tomorrow?  
** **> >Do you need me to call you?**

Another spot of random warmth floods through my chest at his thoughtfulness.  Marco truly is a man of another kind.  I would not at all be surprised if his heart was literally made of gold. 

Not that it means I want to tell him about the nightmare.  Hell, it’ll make him worry more.  Marco probably has better things to worry about then my petulance and insecurity.  At the same time… I don’t want to stop speaking with him quite yet. 

**To: My Future Model >>conie and sasha r pulling a late 1 in the noisy bed nextdoor  
** **> >I dont think they know how thin the walls are seprating us**

**From: My Future Model >>That sucks.  Oh my God I’m so sorry man :}**

**To: My Future Model >>i know ur laughing at me**  
 **> >dont laugh at my misfortunes**  
 **> >u wud not be laughing in this sutiation  
** **> >situation**

**From: My Future Model >>Okay okay maybe I laughed a little… but I totally know the feeling, man.  My dad and stepmoms (and others) don’t usually refrain from using just the bedroom.  **

**To: My Future Model >>Haha we both have unfortunate sexy-time moments then  
** **> >idk where my ipod is so i cant set myself to sleep w/ songs :(**

Okay, that’s totally not true.  I see my iPod right now, lying in a pile of headphones on the floor not even a foot from my face, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say there’s a part of me that wants him to text me a lullaby again, if only for a sense of stability only that sort of thing can supply. 

 

 **From: My Future Model >>Oh I have mine right here**  
 **> >I’m listening to my repertoire and looking for a Jean song  
** **> >I think I’ve found one**

My pulse spikes slightly. 

 

 **To: My Future Model >>what reminds me of u**  
 **> >u of me  
** **> >fuck this**

I eagerly await a response, setting it on the beanbag beside me.  As I wait, my eyelids droop.  The thought of Marco crouched over his phone like me for my texts is like a balm to my nerves.  I don’t once think of the shadows once looming in every corner, nor the blood that’d pooled around my mother on our floor. 

Marco makes everything bad go away, if only for a little while. 

I fall asleep as if I’m safely wrapped up in his arms.  In my last moment of consciousness, I almost wish I am. 

 

* * *

 

I love watching Marco when he’s jumping with Polo. 

Maybe it’s because he makes it look so natural.  I watch him from a distance, smiling as horse and rider sail over jumps together, barely ever clipping a pole.  When one of Polo’s legs do smack against one of the jumps, Marco takes it in stride, and gently steers his horse back towards the obstacle to retry it.  If the pole falls, he doesn’t bat an eye getting it back up, and quickly leads Polo to attempt it for a second time.  He smiles as he works, and I don’t think he’s ever done that before – I mean, obviously, he’s smiled before, but never a continuous smile that keeps soldiering throughout it all. 

This smile seems softer than usual, too.  It’s not a radiant beam, just a gentle prick in the corners of his lips.  Somehow, it suits him just as well as his beatific grin. 

Feeling somewhat awkward in my official uniform, I strut over to Marco’s pasture, watching them sail over jumps together.  I don’t mean to interrupt him, but the moment he sees me, he slows Polo to a trot and lopes up beside the fence, smiling kindly from beneath the shadow of his helmet. 

“Hello, stranger!” he greets cheerfully, pulling up beside me.  His eyes graze over my face, and concern replaces his content.  “God, Jean, you look like you didn’t sleep a wink last night.”  His voice softens to a special, murmuring tone I’ve never heard before – the slight purr in his tones feels like a tender caress.  “You feeling okay, Jean?  Do you need me?”

“No, I –”  Pleasure coils in my stomach with his wording.  Blushing and glancing at the ground, I smile to myself, praying he doesn’t see me in this moment of weakness.  “I’m okay, Marco.  … _Thanks_ , by the way.”

I hope he understands.  _Thanks for not ditching me last night.  Thanks for listening to my sop story.  Thanks for holding me in your arms and letting me barf my feelings all over you.  Thanks for offering to do it all again._

“Of course.”  He clears his throat, shaking his head, and the lovely murmuring tone is gone.  “If you ever, um, if you ever need someone to talk to – I mean, Commander Handsome is always an option, but I’m here, too.  You look good in your uniform – do you like it?”

I squirm uncomfortably, scowling – the weird dress-shirt with leather-jacket thing isn’t working real well for me, but I don’t bother to tell him that.  “Um, sure.  It’s fucking weird as hell, man.” 

He chuckles at that, shrugging.  “Apparently, that’s what the rich like – I suppose I should know that, but, _well_.  I don’t like seeing inferiors dressed as jesters.”

“Inferiors?”  I place my hands on my hips.  “That all you see me as?”

Marco sticks his nose way up in the air, bundling Polo’s reins so his horse does the same.  “You have a problem with that, peasant?”

I kick some sand at him.  “Wow, bastard, way to make me feel loved.”

“Sorry, Jon-Bon.”  His eyes wrinkle with his massive grin.  “I love you very, very much.  Almost as much as I love Polo – that’s saying something, Jean.”  Marco winks at me playfully.

“Haha, yeah.”  I try my damnedest to keep my eyes downcast, to keep them from flickering up and betraying the whirlwind of emotion churning my guys, but I find myself glancing up at him nonetheless.  “You can get back to that, you know – I like watching you jump.”

Marco blushes, but he looks pleased.  “Well, Polo and I still have a bit of a ways to go and not a whole lot of time, I’ll admit, but I was waiting for you to get here, anyway.  I need your help.” 

Uh oh.  “With what?”

He swings himself off of Polo and manages to flip over the fence beside me, landing with the grace of a cat.  Rising, he waves his hand and begins to walk towards the gate, glancing back at me to make sure I’m following. 

“See, the hinges on this gate are extremely creaky,” Marco explains over his shoulder.  “I’ll show you in a second.  This is, however, the main exercise ring, and it’d be where Ally warmed up with Franz every day.  The squeaking spooks him.  I need someone to help me teach him that there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

I slink back as Marco’s hands move deftly over the lock, unlatching the gate and allowing Polo to come prancing forth.  Eyeing the horse suspiciously, I say a quick, “Uh, Marco, man, we’ve talked about how this is not… my forte.”

“You won’t have to be anywhere near Franz,” Marco assures, glancing at me with his warm Cocoa-Eyes.  He loops two fingers through Polo’s bridle and pulls the horse close to him, pressing their foreheads together and kissing his muzzle.  “I promise it, Jean.  I’ll keep you as far away from that horse as I can.  You did ask me to teach you how to handle Levi a while back, and, uh… you still don’t know how.”

I arch a brow at him, stubbornly stepping back in my weird skin-tight white pants.  “I am beyond unconvinced right now, Bodt.”

“I can teach you how to lead Levi,” Marco explains patiently, “while I lead Franz back and forth through this gate.  I’ll handle Franz and keep him as far away as possible – we can go through one at a time.  But like this, I can help you with Levi and get plenty of training with him done, and also get Franz to calm down around gates.  It works.”

It’s hard to glare at him while he’s rubbing his nose against his horse’s forehead and giggling like a kindergartener, but I give it my all.  “And you’re sure that you can keep ahold of Franz?”

“I can’t ride him, Jean.”  Looking away from his horse, he stares at me with those Cocoa-Eyes, and it’s too much – I blush madly, glancing down at my neat leather boots.  “That doesn’t mean I have _no_ control over that horse.  You’ll be in safe hands.”  His voice gentles.  “I’d never let anything happen to you.”

My blush only grows worse.  “Um.  Um.  Thanks.  Should I…?”

“Check in with Rico, inform her of my request,” Marco explains patiently.  “Since I’m technically a client, she’ll have to let you off the hook with your duties until we’re finished, and no make-up work.  Do whatever you have to in order to get ready, then meet me out here with Levi.”

“Okay.”  I flash a smile up at him.  “Just give me some time, alright?”

Marco giggles, taking Polo’s head in both of his hands and massaging along the horse’s cheeks.  “I’ve got to take care of this funny little pony,” he coos, eyes saturated with adoration.  “And it’ll take me a while.  Won’t it, Polo?  Won’t it?”

The horse whickers softly, tossing his head slightly.  I’ve never known a horse that can show emotion – they seem like big, dumb animals to me, mostly.  But if there’s any horse that has feelings, it’s this one. 

“You’ll have all the time in the world, Jean.”  Pressing a final kiss to Polo’s velvety muzzle, Marco takes him by the reins and tugs him gently, clucking his tongue.  “Don’t worry about that.”

“It’s not that I’m worrying about,” I mutter darkly.  “Hey, uh, Marco?”

He glances back, a lingering tenderness still in his eyes.  “Hmmm?”

“Uh…”  My tongue feels heavy in my mouth, swollen, unmoveable.  “Nothing.”

Marco seems confused for a second – he halts, hesitant to continue.  “You sure?”

“I’ll… tell you later, okay?”

“Alright, Jean.”  Marco smiles politely, but he still seems a bit bemused.  “I’ll talk to you in a bit, okay?”

“Okay,” I say, feeling painfully awkward standing in the middle of the road as he walks off.  Ignoring the uncomfortable air Marco leaves behind him, I push back the folds of the weird skirt-thing and shove my hands in my pockets.  Fuck this uniform. 

If these last few weeks are anything to show for, I won’t have to wear it often.  The little viewing on the House on the Hill is hardly something I’d consider these necessary for, but, in case someone actually pays any attention to the stables, we need to wear them and be on our best behavior.  That alone will put Rico in a worse mood than usual – I don’t think I’ll be an apple in her eye for getting out of work. 

I’ve never really liked Rico – she’s got an aggressively logical mind that clashes with my motto: “Fuck it.”  In my opinion, she takes her job a bit too seriously, but that means to not fuck with her at all.  Plus, her weird, colorless appearance makes her seem a bit frightening to me – there’s never any emotion in her eyes beyond scorn. 

She snaps a whip sharply at the heels of a liver chestnut as she lead-lines it, keeping it cantering around the corral, chasing after it.  A skilled horsewoman, she knows exactly what she’s doing, but I sure as hell don’t – I wait awkwardly for her to acknowledge my presence, leaning on the railing. 

“What do you want, Kirschtein?” Rico calls as the cantering horse turns on a dime at her command.  “Oh, and, yes, you have to wear the uniform all day.”

“Not what I was asking about.”  I smirk half-heartedly.  “Marco wants me to work with him and his horse for a while – says he’s a client, so I get to be free of my duties for a bit.”

Rico shoots me a pissed glare.  “That boy knows we’re already short on staff.  Get back to work.”

I purse my lips thoughtfully, trying my damnedest not to flinch away as the horse slows to a trot in front of me.  “Well, Rico, he is a client – we have to show the best us for the customers, don’t we?  I don’t think us just ignoring his demands would be in West Trost’s interests.”

The glare she shoots me could impale.  “Fine, you bastard.  Hope you’re happy with him.”

I lift an eyebrow and cock my head at her.  “Well, it beats sitting there chasing a horse around a ring, doesn’t it?  I think you’re jealous I escaped.”

Rico glares at me like I’d just spat in her coffee.  “Talk to me like that again, Kirschtein, and I won’t care who fancies you – your ass will be off this property with a restraining order.  Are we clear?”

Hastily, I nod, scrambling to defend myself.  “Yes.  Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.”  Her silvery eyes narrow.  “Now get out of my sight and hope I don’t catch you doing anything worth firing.”

“Yes, ma’am.”  I retreat quickly, realizing that _shit_ , I done-diddly fucked my “relatively-okay” status with her up.  I can’t lose this job.  _For fuck’s sake, Jean, just ‘cos you’re friends with a primary client doesn’t mean you’re beloved by all._  

 _Marco just likes people_.  I have to remind myself that, and, I’ll admit, it’s a bit difficult to admit, even if it’s only to myself.  _Marco just likes people in general.  You’re no exception.  Nothing special.  Just a big fucking bouquet of sarcasm and problems.  Remember that and keep your head low._

Swearing beneath my breath, I hurry my way back to Stable Maria.  I feel Reiner watching me from the shadows of Stable Sina, but I don’t lift my head, focusing intently on the rise and fall of my feet.  _Never, ever fucking mess with Rico,_ I scold myself.  _She is a fucking bitch without a heart._  

Not that Levi is much better – while a few of the ponies have begun to appreciate my company as more than just some weirdo that cleans their shit, even sticking their heads out as I walk past, that little Shetland hates me more than ever. 

Whereas most of the horses lift their heads when I pass their stalls, he turns his back towards the hallway.  Levi shrilly whinnies at me the moment my hands land on his stall door, tossing his head and stamping his tiny pony hooves.  He charges towards the door, stamping his feet threateningly, as if daring me to let him loose.

He’s so short, though, the motion seems almost comical – only his ears poke out above the stall door, swiveling this way and that in what I suppose in an irritated manner. 

“Hey, fucktard, how are you doing?”  I flick at one of his ears, causing him to tip his head back and scree out a challenging cry.  “Don’t like that, do you?”

“He’s never going to like you if you do that,” comes a voice from behind me. 

A tingle travels up my spine as a warm body appears beside me and a hand rests so closely next to mine on the stall door that it almost overlaps.  Marco reaches out and bats mine aside, moving his fingers to instead card through Levi’s.  Remarkably, the pony calms beneath his touch. 

“Oh, hey.”  I swallow with difficulty, refusing to meet Marco’s eyes quiet yet.  “Where did you come from?”

“You stormed right past me on your way in,” he chuckles, shaking his head.  “Did Rico give you any trouble?  I’m sorry if she did. 

“Nah, I just –”  My gaze lifts to meet Marco’s soft, exploring eyes.  He’d been watching me with the most openly sincere expression I’ve ever seen on a human being – his eyes, framed by his dark lashes and accented by his splattering of freckles, glitter like – _fuck_ , I need to find out the name of a brown gemstone.  I need something to call my portfolio when I finally get this boy into the studio. 

A slightly self-conscious look in his eyes, Marco half-smiles adorably, glancing from me to Levi nervously.  “Um, Jean, you there?”

“Y-yeah, sorry.”  My cheeks flush.  “Just think you look good with your hair like that – sudden photographer’s urges, y’know?”

“No, not really,” Marco says lightly, “but I’ll take your word for it.  Now, if you flick Levi’s ears like that, he’ll never like you.  I wouldn’t blame him one bit – I wouldn’t like you, either, you’d be even more dreadful to be around then you are currently.”

“Shut up,” I growl, bumping my hips against his.   

“You first.”  Still smiling, Marco rubs his fingers beneath the halter’s cheek-band, causing the little pony to half-lid his eyes and lean into his touch.  “C’mon, let me show you how to win Levi’s favor, okay?”

“Alright… but don’t you have to take care of Franz?”

“He’s outside already.”  Marco shrugs, pursing his lips.  “I tied him up to a pole.  We should hurry, actually – if he’s not in his stall, he freaks out when he hears my calling.”

“What, Whitney Houston?”

“Yeah.”  He smiles to himself, eyes soft.  “That.  I guess I am rushing you a little bit – sorry.”

“It’s okay, Marco.  Show me how to wrangle this pony.”

“Sure thing, Jean.” 

Like everything else in this wide world, Marco is _perfect_ with Levi.  Apparently, I’ve been doing a fuck-up job with taking care of that little pony, and nobody’s told me about it.  Everything I’ve been doing is wrong with the little pony – dragging him around like I do is apparently counterproductive.  According to Marco, that’s probably why he has such fervent hatred for me. 

Everything evidently gets a lot worse as I try to yank Levi from his stall, because Marco’s polite, painted-on smile blanches into pure horror. 

“Here,” Marco coos.  “Lemme show you – your grip on the halter is all wrong –”

His hand overlaps mine, and that’s all I can feel for a few seconds.  I freeze, each muscle stiffening as his warmth brushes my shoulders.  With gentle, soft-skinned fingers, he corrects my grip on the lead-line.  I can’t force myself to focus on what he’s saying, for some reason – my mind is too intently centered around the freckles on the back of his palms. 

“Got it?” he asks brightly, grabbing my attention once more. 

“U-uh, yeah…”  Anxiously, I flex my fingers around the coarse line again. 

“Okay, no, you just did it again,” Marco laughs.  “Relax your hold.  The hand beneath the muzzle on any halter should be calm and collected.  The line needs to bob up and down in your hand with every step the horse takes – your main leverage comes from the dominant hand, which is holding the coil tightly.  Okay?”

“Got it.”  I pass a glance his direction, thanking him silently for explaining it all again.  “No one’s explained that.  Um, so – so how do I hold it when I walk?”

I’m not quite sure why I’m asking – luckily, though, Marco’s smile is patient.  “Same thing, really.  Let the head bob up and down.  Keep some loose in between your hands, hanging.  Keep the coil held tight.  It’s the same when walking and standing.”

“Okay, so…”  Frowning, I adjust my hold nervously around the coil.  “If this is what you do to handle any old horse, how does it help me at fucking all with Levi?”

Upon the mention of his name, the pony stamps his foot down hard on my boot (coincidentally, I’m sure).  I slap him across the face with the coil, cursing. 

Marco watches me, grinning.  “You’ve got to know how to actually walk any old horse before you’ve got any hope with Levi.  Besides, Levi – you’ll figure him out.  He doesn’t like to actually be lead anywhere.”

Testing the waters, I take a step forward, yanking on the lead line.  Instantly, the little pony’s knees lock.  His ears swivel back and his nostrils flare.  Exasperated, I release the tension on the line, turning to Marco with pleading eyes. 

“See?”  I yank once on the pony’s halter, scowling.  “This shit is what I’m talking about.”

Marco shakes his head.  “I see why he doesn’t respect you now.  You just let him win, Jean.  Not only did you loosen the tension, but you looked away, man.  Can’t do that.  He speaks in body language, remember?”

“Right.”  I chew at my bottom lip, glaring up into the horse’s grey eyes.  “Well, then, do I just stare at him for a really long time?”

That smile of his quirks.  “Have you ever trained a dog, Jean?”

“Once, maybe…?  I helped my mom, anyway.”

“Well, if you remember anything about your body language with the dog – the concept is literally the same throughout the animal kingdom.”  A fire lights up in Marco’s eyes and a mischief dances in his eyes, both kindling a small ember in the pit of my stomach.  “Even us humans respond to it.  Gentle, but firm.  Firm as hell.  Your touch has to be gentle, because he’ll rebel against cruelty, but if you’re weak, he won’t bother responding to you.”

Ripping my gaze from Marco’s, I stare at Levi, frowning.  “Well, I just did both of those wrong, didn’t I?  Fuck.”

Chuckling, Marco pats the side of Levi’s head.  “Unfortunately.  Listen, don’t stare at him at all as you try to pull him along, unless he’s being extremely stubborn.  Don’t acknowledge his existence.  Since you’re obviously submissive to him, at least try to seem dominant.”

“Excuse me?”  I raise an eyebrow at him.  “Submissive?”

“You heard me.”  Marco smiles crookedly.  “Now, on with it.  Try that.  I’ll go fetch Franz and meet you in the ring – I’ll give you five minutes to get this figured out, then I’ll march Levi over myself, okay?”

“I might need more than five,” I grouch, shifting my position slightly.  I try to ignore the way Marco’s eyes slide up and down my body as he checks my posture. 

“You can have more than five,” he relents.  “And – and Jean?  Don’t worry about Franz.  I’ll take care of him.”

If he thinks that his word alone is enough to quell my fear, then he is sorely mistaken. 

At least Levi is slightly better with me – instead of straining every muscle in my body dragging him anywhere, he takes slow, stiff steps.  They’re more often than not in directions other than where I want to go, and he fights more against the halter than ever (I take that he doesn’t like me actually holding it correctly).  

That said, I’m still going to be aching tonight.  My toes are probably going to need to be bandaged, with all he steps on them. 

Marco watches me in the distance, his hands wrapped around Franz’s line as a perfect model for me.  I probably would’ve stared at him, studying the straight, beautiful posture he holds himself with, had it not been for the demon leering at me over his shoulder. 

With all honesty, Franz is an excellent specimen.  Pitch black aside from one sock on one of his hind legs, he’s glossy and elegant.  His eyes, though absolutely terrifying, hold spirit and personality.  American Saddlebreds, as I understand it, are bred to look like little aristocrats among horses.  If my thinking is right, then Franz is simply excellent. 

Still, the same factors that make Franz such a gorgeous horse make him dangerous, too.  His neck arches, his lips froth.  His eye rolls back, and he prances back and forth as much as one can when held tight in Marco’s hands. 

Just one of those hooves could crush a person.  A single step through your ribcage, and you’d be done for.  It could break a toe, or give you a concussion, or snap a bone.  If that horse tries to take me out… it could. 

Almost as if sensing my discomfort, Marco holds Franz’s head tight, clucking his tongue reprimandingly, quieting the horse’s stomping more or less. 

“Are you sure…”  I shake my head, eyeing Franz with trepidation as I yank Levi towards the gate.  “Are you sure Franz is the right horse for Ally?  I mean… isn’t he a bit… rough?”

Marco shrugs.  “She wants to build her relationship with her horse like I did with Polo.  Trust me, that one was a thousand times worse – good old Polo sent me to the hospital thrice when I was breaking him.  Once she gets the doctor’s all-clear, which’ll be three weeks before her birthday, she can bang it up as much as she wants.  And she’ll love to teach him dressage with me.”

“So, is he another dressage horse, then?”  I frown, skirting around the edges of Franz’s personal bubble, scowling distrustfully at him.  “Same breeder as Batman?”

“Yeah.”  Marco cautiously rubs his fingers against the side of Franz’s head.  “I got Batman by accident in the auctions because no one wanted an American Saddlebred dressage horse – they’re not the ideal breed – but then Ally fell in love with the sport.  I’ve learned it for her, and I can’t wait to teach it to her.”

His eyes sparkle.  It’s positively distracting.  “Uh huh.”

“I hope she likes it.”  Marco fidgets with the halter, pulling on the straps.  “She has no idea that I’m getting her a horse.  But she’s always wanting to ride Polo, and – and she loves wild horses.  She’s always wanted to tame her own.”

“I’m sure she’ll love it, man.”  I flash him a tense smile.  “But – but first.  This.  How, uh, how do we…?”

“Right, this.”  Marco gestures towards the ajar gate, frowning deeply.  “I was thinking – to avoid conflict, maybe you could guide Levi through first?  I mean, it might take some time for Franz to just get used to the gate – he’s antsy being close to it…”

“It’s not like I’ve got better things to do, Bodt,” I smirk.

“Huh.”  Bashful pink blossoms in Marco’s cheeks.  “Okay.  I think I’ll just guide Franz through while it’s open.  Like, initially.  We shouldn’t have to worry about the creaking until he’s okay with just walking past.  Right?”

“Sounds okay to me.”  Anxiously, I hold Levi’s head tighter, until Marco feigns relaxing in my periphery.  Almost subconsciously, I release the tension in my muscles.  “So, should I just…?”

“You should just.”  He nods towards the gate. 

Levi’s ears prick when I cluck him forward, yanking with a bit of harshness on his halter.  Instead of fighting my every move, he trots into the corral eagerly, ears tilted towards the jumps, nostrils puffing in and out with excitement.  _Bastard likes to jump, eh?_

“Levi’s strange in the way that he actually likes to jump,” Marco explains from behind me, his voice muffling the sound of heavy hooves thumping first over gravel, then dirt, growing closer and closer to the sandy ring.  “You’ll probably have more trouble getting him away from the ring then you will into it.”

“Is that really so strange, though?” I say, my voice embarrassingly high and strained.  “I mean – Polo likes to jump, right?”

“Right, but Polo was bred to jump, and he’s got the legs for it,” Marco explains.  “Levi’s just got little – _crap!_ ”

He releases a pained yelp from behind me.  Before I even can whip around entirely, Franz trumpets in terror, the sounds of his hooves slamming against the earth growing louder.  My head snaps around.  Terrified, I watch as the black stallion yanks backwards on the line with enough force to rip Marco’s arms from their sockets. 

“Shit, Marco, drop him!” I cry.  Desperately, I want to rush to Marco’s aid, but I’m frozen on the spot, unable to do anything as the inevitable happens.  Franz shifts his weight to his hind-hooves, and his front legs thrust upwards. 

Marco moves like a flash of lightning.  Both of his hands go to the line.  The moment Franz’s front feet leave the ground, he hurls all his weight into the halter and roughly pulls the horse’s head down.  Marco’s ass hits the sand when Franz hits the ground uneasily, but his strength doesn’t once falter. 

Once, Franz whickers angrily, tossing his head back.  Marco replies in turn by climbing up the rope a little more, pulling the halter down further.  With a disgruntled snort, Franz relaxes against the halter. 

Marco collapses onto his back, gasping for air. 

“Shit, man!” I squeak, taking a half-step closer.  “Are you okay?”

Marco laughs breathily.  “I probably should’ve warned you that he was gonna do that.  Test his authority, I mean.  It’s okay, though.  I’m boss now.  That shouldn’t happen again, for a little while, at least.”

“Damn right you should’ve.”  I lean against Levi, releasing the breath I’d been holding.  “Shit.  You scared me to death.  You sure it’s okay for you to just lie there?”

“Mmm.”  Marco shifts in the sand until he’s smiling towards me.  “Franz isn’t going to pull anything while I’m here.  The moment I start guiding him forward again, maybe.  Not now.”

“What?”  Suspiciously, I study that big, black horse, wanting more than anything to be able to get between it and Marco without throwing myself into a panic-attack.  “How can you be sure?”

“I can’t be.”  Pushing himself off the sand, Marco tilts his head back towards me, eyes dark and sincere.  “But how can I expect him to trust me if I don’t trust him?  Trust is always a two-lane street.  It doesn’t ever matter who you’re dealing with.”

“Okay, but…”  I hesitate.  “Please be careful,” I plead. 

His face softens into the notorious Cocoa-Eyes.  “Of course, Jean.”

Rocketing up onto his feet, Marco makes soft, coaxing noises, guiding Franz more towards the gate than anything.  He lays a hand on the gate, raps his knuckles against the gate.  Franz still seems uneasy, with his ears lain back and his feet shuffling uncertainly, but a certain sense of curiosity also is present. 

Some reminiscence pops back in my mind of American Saddlebreds being praised as an intelligent, curious breed. 

“See?” Marco murmurs softly, leaning against the fence.  “Nothing to be afraid of.”  He produces a carrot slice from his pocket, gently placing it on the top rim of the fence.  “Shh, shh… see?  Nothing to be afraid of…  It’s yours if you can grab it.”

Franz stamps a hoof, glaring at Marco, his ears twisting back.  His eyes relay a scoffing message: _Not likely, my friend._

“Hey, Jean, walk Levi through the gates again…?”  Marco gently leads Franz so that he’s parallel to the fence and out of our way.  “I think if he sees a more experienced horse doing it, he’ll be more eager to get the carrot.”

“Won’t Levi get the carrot?” I protest, not really wanting to tear the pony out of the ring – he seems so excited and he’s extremely responsive while he’s in here.  Something tells me that responsiveness would give way the moment I tried to guide him out of this place. 

Marco shakes his head.  “Levi eats carrots weird.  He likes to hold the whole carrot in his mouth – he eats it uniquely.  He won’t touch that one.”

“If you say so.”  Readjusting my grip on Levi, I click my tongue as assertively as possible.  One of his eyes roll to me in exasperation.  “Move it, you dirty ass.”

Levi whickers indignantly, marching in place as I try my damnedest to pull him forward.  I almost feel bad for the little horse – he looks downright upset at being pulled away, as upset as an emotionless devil can be. 

“I know, I know, c’mon, you dick.  This way.”

He fights me the whole way back, kicking and squealing.  Honestly, I don’t know how much it’s going to help Marco at all – if I saw a dude fighting with Levi’s tenacity being dragged through a gate, I wouldn’t wanna go through it, either.  But hell, so far, the guy’s known what he’s talking about, so I’ll trust him. 

At last out of the corral, I wipe the sweat from my brow and turn to Marco.  “Now what?”

He smiles a bit bashfully, fiddling with Franz’s halter.  “Um, turn around and go back.”

I scowl.  “You’re kidding.”

“Sorry.”  Marco scratches at the back of his neck.  “…I should’ve told you.” 

“Yeah, probably.”  Rolling my eyes, I pivot Levi and lead him back to the ring.  Though he’s still strictly fighting me, Levi goes back into his element easier than he’d left it.  His grey eyes hide that glimmer of excitement well, but not well enough to escape my notice. 

Behind me, Marco croons to Franz.  “See that?   See?  It’s not attacking him, is it?  No, no it’s not!”

I crack a smile, just to myself.  Marco is so cute. 

Levi and I have to walk through the door a few more times before Franz is satisfied that it is, in fact, an inanimate object that won’t harm him.  Through a soothing baby-voice courtesy of Marco and the enticing carrot slices, he nervously sidles up time after time to the fence time after time.  Initially, he jumps back immediately after slobbering up the carrot slice.  Slowly, though, Marco hides the carrot deeper in the grating, making it more and more difficult for Franz to be rewarded without facing his fear. 

“I make it a game,” he explains.  “He has to get the carrot out of the fence as quickly as possible.  Eventually, the gate loses its fear-factor and just becomes an obstacle.  An obstacle is easier to deal with than a fear-factor – we can tackle it just like we do any other.”

After another hour of walking Levi back and forth and waiting on the scaredy-horse, Franz is no longer afraid of the gate.  When it’s completely still and unmoving, he’s A-okay with its presence.  Words of praise fall unrestrained from Marco’s mouth. 

“He’s such a good boy!” Marco squeals, throwing himself at me in a bear hug.  His strong arms wrap around my torso, squeezing me against him tightly, before swiftly releasing me to heap more praise upon his horse.  “Oh, Franz, I’m so excited for you – baby steps, baby steps!  _Awww!_   My little boy!”

Chuckling, I escort myself around the horse, leading an emotionally-exhausted Levi behind me.  “Marco, quit being so sweet, you’re going to give me a cavity.”

“Only if you sink your teeth into me.”  He winks over his shoulder, smirking.  “Hey, Jean, let’s not press Franz’s success any more today.  I think I’m going to let him out in the pasture.  Is that okay?”

“’Course.  Why wouldn’t it be?” 

Marco chews at his lower lip, glancing up at my through his thick fringing of eyelashes.  “I just feel sort of guilty for getting Rico ticked at you and having… limited success.” 

“It’s fine, Bodt,” I groan, rolling my eyes.  I fiddle with Levi’s halter, making sure that none of the straps had slipped with all of our dominance battles.  “Don’t want to push him.  Get that horse’s ass to the pasture and give him a good old break.”

Beaming, Marco nods ecstatically.  “You’re awesome, Jean.  Don’t let Rico chew you out too much.”

“Not sure if I have much of a choice,” I sigh, cracking a wry smile, “but I’ll do my best.”  Our gazes hold for a few seconds; not long enough to become awkward, _God, nothing could be less awkward_ , but long enough for me to reorganize the scatter that is my thoughts.  “Will I be seeing more of you, or are you heading home?”

Marco checks his watch.  “My ride to campus will be leaving soon – so, this is goodbye for today.  You’ve done really well with Levi, too, Jean.”  His eyes flash with praise.  “Maybe, if you could spare some more time tomorrow, we could work on it more…?”

I smirk towards him, hoping that my eyes aren’t as revealing of the pile of the mush that’s my heart as I think they are.  “I sorta figured.”

“Great!”  Something flickers over his face for half a second, a moment of uncertainty, of discomposure.  “…Really, I am sorry today didn’t go as quickly as I planned.  You can’t push someone to just get over a fear.”

“Well, yeah…”  I rub behind Levi’s ears.  “You can’t just get someone to trust you out of the blue, either.  So today was sort of a mutual fail.”

“I wouldn’t call it that.”  Marco smushes his cheek against Franz’s, giving it that cushy look that makes my photographer-sense go crazy.  His eyes sparkle, and his lips pull up in a small smile.  “Just means we get to see one another a little bit more.  That’s not bad, as far as I’m concerned.”

A blush burns in my cheeks.  “Yeah.  Yeah, me neither.”

Marco’s voice is quiet and gentle.  “Good.  I’m glad to hear.  I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Jean.  Text me, alright?”

Nodding perhaps a few more times than necessary, I say, “’Course, Bodt.  …I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

“So, Jean,” Sasha says, grinning over her tub of ice cream, “how are things with freckles?”

I glare at her over my spoonful of Vanilla Bean.  Should’ve known this nice little ice cream party waiting for me when I got home was too good to be true – I’d just figured I’d plucked some of their heartstrings last night with my emotion-attack.  Of course there’s going to be a catch, and I’m willing to bet that catch has something to do with an adorable freckled bastard. 

“What do you want me to say?”  Licking the ice cream from my lips, I scowl at her, daring the bottomless pit of a woman to speak up.  “He’s my client.  He’s an awesome guy.  Nothing more.”

“Nothing more, eh?”  Connie’s eyes glint maliciously with the light of the television.  “Is that why you were cuddling up with him?”

“Connie!”  I chuck a couch pillow at him.  He ducks, laughing, and tucks it under his arm. 

“Yeah, Bonnie-Boo,” Sasha pipes up, “flirting with clients is a regular thing for Jean.”

“Sasha!”  I’m out of pillow ammunition, leaving me incapable of doing anything aside glowering in her general direction. 

“But seriously, man.”  Connie stretches out over the floor, propping his head up on my pillow.  “What’s up with you and him?  I’m curious.  I mean, he’s obviously in love with you.  That boy is crushing on you if I’ve ever seen it.”

My throat closes up, and I make a noise akin to a gag trying to answer him. 

“Not just ‘I want to fuck that’ sort of love,” Sasha adds helpfully.   “That was one smitten kitten.”

“You guys – you’re making that up!” I accuse.  I wouldn’t be remotely surprised if my cheeks burst into flame.  “Just ‘cos he’s gay doesn’t mean he’s gay for _me!_ ”

“Yeah, but you’re totally gay for him,” Connie insists, his teeth flashing demonically.  “I mean, you’ve been flirting the hell out of that guy for how long now?”

“We’ve read your texts, Jean,” Sasha sings, rubbing her naked toes over my sweatpants teasingly.  “That is a motherload of gay.  Like, if this was the gaypocalypse, you’d totally be the leader of a badass survival camp, and Marco would be your hot gay sidekick.”

“You’d die first,” I growl vehemently, glowering at her.  “Not even a cool death.  You’d die of starvation.”

“She’s the only one out of all of us that can hunt,” Connie points out.  “But this isn’t about Potato’s chances of survival!  This is about releasing your inner gay, Jean!”

“I’m straight!” I snarl, clapping my hands over my ears.  “God, I thought you just wanted to give me ice cream!  I assumed you were nice people!”

“Mistake!”  Sasha collapses into a fit of cackling.  “Mistake, mistake!”

Angrily, I slam the ice cream bowl down upon the coffee table, making the vase of plastic flowers tremble threateningly.  “ _I am not gay!_ ” I shout.  “Not for Marco, not for anybody!”

Sasha and Connie fall silent.  Their eyes, wide and alarmed, both fall upon me, and their mouths open in identical O’s of alarm.  Falling into a shocked stupor, I lean back on the couch, just as stunned by my outburst as them.  Groaning, I lean forward, cupping my face in my hands. 

“Sorry,” I mumble, shaking my head.  “Rough day.  Rough, confusing day.”

“Our bad, man.”  Connie’s voice is thin.  He sound like a scolded puppy.  “Sexuality can be a touchy subject.  Sorry for pushing it.”

“But if you really are one hundred percent certain about your position as Straight Prince,” Sasha says quietly, “you owe Marco an apology for leading him on the way you’ve been doing.”

“…What?”

Connie shakes his head in disbelief.  “Dude.  Do you really not know?”

“Know what?”

He makes a groaning noise in the back of his throat.  “You’ve been flirting nonstop with the poor guy, you dick.”

“He’s probably really confused about your tastes in relationships, too,” Sasha adds, nodding.  “Remember what he said to Eren that basically shut the guy down?  ‘Jean is straight’ or whatever?”

“‘Jean is one-hundred percent straight’?”  Connie frowns.  “‘Jean is completely straight’?”

“Wha’eva,” Sasha sighs around a mouthful of ice cream.  “Poor guy ‘s prob’bly confused out of his mind by you, wond’ring if you’ve got a crush on him o’ if you’re jus’ extremely cruel, whi’ you are.”  She swallows.  “Damn, Jean.”

“Cut the flirting out before you get yourself down a real shithole,” Connie advises, nodding sagely.  “Freckles is too good a guy for you to tangle with, man.  Don’t break his ickle heart.”

They both stare at me expectantly, awaiting a reply with all the eagerness of puppies.  Their eyes gleam anxiously in the low-light of the room, and dribbles of melted ice cream run down their fingers.  None of that really seems to matter to me. 

“I have totally been flirting with Marco Bodt,” I realize. 

After a moment of silence, Sasha snorts.  “Well, duh!  A blind bat could see that.”

“Did you never notice?” Connie asks gleefully.  “Were you just flirting out of your asshole?  ‘Cos it worked, you should try with girls, Straight Prince.”

“B-but,” I stammer, staring intently down at my bowl of ice cream, “I’m hetero… right?”

“A dick likes what a dick likes, my friend,” he sympathizes unsympathetically.  “Your dick just has a kink for freckled babes that happen to be dudes.”

“Good choice, by the way,” Sasha comments.  “He’s definitely quite handsome, and he’s got adorable cheeks!  And his smile, _ugh_ , I want him as a pet.”

Onwards they chatter, chirping meaninglessly like birds just to hear themselves speak.  Honestly, this is Sasha and Connie, and any other behavior would be considered way, way wrong, but… for some reason, I can’t hear any of it.  My own words echo in my brain as I stare down at the vanilla ice cream as it slowly melts in its little glass bowl. 

A large, gloppy chunk slides down the inside. 

_I have totally been flirting with Marco Bodt._

It collides with the soup in the middle, embedding itself in a thick, syrupy trap. 

_I have totally been flirting with Marco Bodt._

The ice cream glob melts into the rest of the liquid, disappearing slowly beneath the off-white surface and dispersing with the rest of the liquid cream. 

_I totally have a thing for Marco Bodt._

There’s no fucking way that’s it.  I mean, not that I’ve had that many girlfriends, but – I’m not gay.  I am not gay.  Am I?

Struggling to come to terms with emotions I can’t cap nor let gush forth, I think back to all our encounters over the past few weeks, all the way back to our first meeting – ever since the beginning, I’ve been checking him out.  But as a model, right?  I want him to model for me. 

Fuck, fuck yes I want to have him model for me. 

I mean, he’s a god, the paragon of male perfection.  Any photographer would want that in front of their lens.  That alone is not gay. 

Unfortunately, that is not all I have done. 

As Connie and Sasha jabber on like bluebirds, I sit there, quiet and alone with my thoughts.  _What about that time I asked him to be my nude model?_ I recall numbly.  _Or that time I complimented his flower-necklace skills?  Or, fuck, that time I saved his ass from Reiner’s hosedown?  God, and I’ve been taking… fucking_ lovely _pictures…_

Not bothering to explain myself to the Wonder Twins, I launch myself off the couch, diving towards my beanbag and fishing out my laptop.  Hiding in a corner and protecting my screen from their prying eyes, I frantically tap around through my folders.  My mouth grows dry and I click onto those first few pictures I’d taken of Marco. 

Fuck me. 

The sun refracts perfectly through his eye.  I hadn’t even needed to photoshop it – the ring of gold haloing his pupil had appeared on film.  Adoration shimmers in those eyes, focused on his beloved horse in a gorgeous moment of candid affection.  His smile is so tender that, even seeing it through a camera, it makes my knees weak. 

“Fuck,” I croak weakly, staring at his photo wistfully.  I surrender defeat, not because of the fact that I took these pictures, but because of my reaction now. 

_I want to be the one he’s looking at with that much tenderness._

_I want to be the focus of Marco’s unbridled adoration._

In other words: _I am jealous of his fucking horse._

Closing the computer screen slowly, I lift my gaze gradually up to meet the two expectant pairs of eyes waiting to witness my reaction.  I swallow hard and give a weak attempt to moisten my dry throat. 

“Guys… _I am gay_ for _Marco Bodt_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So excited for my next chapter. So excited for all my chapters. Excited to have you guys read them. Tell me what you think in the comments. Constructive criticism. Happy-go-lucky-adorableness. All that. Thanks.


	9. Gay and Marco-sexual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean struggles and almost screws things up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Mild homophobia and my pathetic attempt at writing sexy scenes *hides face in embarrassment*
> 
> Thank you so much for all you lovely commentors -- you're all so kind. Too kind! But you all make this less-than-stellar writing so much more fun for me, and I appreciate every one of you. 
> 
> Welcome to the family, those that left kudos! I love you!

I wish I could say that everything comes easy after my shocking realization of my own wavering sexuality. 

It’d be so great if I just went up to Marco and confessed one day while he was staring off into the pastures like he always does, if I just laced our hands together and pulled him close and we fell into an embrace then fucked the living shit out of each other in one of the unused stalls.  Just like a fairytale, really.  A gay fairytale. 

However, I am no Prince Charming.  In fact, I am everything but. 

So, instead of asking Marco out on a date, I avoid him whenever possible.  Instead of Instead of texting him late at night and figuring out which song he’s paired with me and then giggling to myself like a lovesick schoolgirl, I stare at the ceiling until my brain shuts down trying to figure all this out. 

If you’ve never been bitch-slapped by your own sexuality, well, consider yourself lucky. 

Even at the best of times, the questions are never far off.  They torture me in every waking moment, partnered by a crippling sense of fear.  Because, although I’ve got nothing against gays personally, the world is an… unkind place.  Considering that my life sucks so much already, it’s daunting.  I’ll be hated not for who I am – not even for what I am – but for who I like, whose company I most enjoy.  And not just disliked, but seriously hated. 

Old ladies will spit at me.  Suited bastards will scoff.  People will look the other way as I pass. 

That homophobia terrifies me. 

I don’t want to be subjected to that. 

Of course, thus begins the questions on whether or not I’m crushing on Marco or just going through some weird shit – I never had an experimental stage in high school.  I have no idea what my preferences are.  What if I’m a late bloomer and Marco just ends up being a test subject?  What if I end up dumping him and realizing that I’m not actually into men?  What if I’m just in love with the idea of loving Marco?

And Marco, in himself, is frightening. 

It’d sound bizarre, I admit, if you compared him to the lovely, squishy-cheeked smile, but he’s a lot more than that.  But Marco isn’t just adorable.  He’s a person, too.  A person with a beating heart, with wants and loves, with preferences and little crushes that go nowhere, just like me or anyone else.  What if this isn’t just some weird thing to me, but I’m some sort of eye-candy to him?  What if he gets bored with me and leaves me by myself to deal with my sexuality?  What if I give him everything and he doesn’t return it?

Every time I think about that, it feels like I’m being punched in the gut. 

Marco is a handsome man.  He’s sweet and endearing and, although he might not always act it, he’s intelligent and stable.  It’s definitely the pieces in the puzzle to an attractive guy.  I’ve never heard him talk about a partner, but I’d never heard him talk about a deaf sister before I met her.  Besides, he’s a rich boy – there’s nothing I can hold him down with. 

What if I do accept my gayness (if _that’s_ even a thing) and he doesn’t want it?

What if I’m just a plaything to him?

What if Connie and Sasha are just mislead about his apparently massive crush on me? 

What if I’m a lovestruck fool dreaming of him? 

A heavy stone drops on my heart.

What if Marco… doesn’t like me?

But dwelling upon insecurities and the impossibilities of being truly gay for another man and that man being truly gay for me back is always better than the alternative, though it comes back to haunt me in moments I think I’m alone.  As I fiddle with the latch of a stall door or sit in traffic with a brain half asleep or stare up at the plain, off-white ceiling above my bean-bag, trying to fool myself into sleep, he emerges from the corners of my mind, where he lurks day in and day out. 

A sweet, innocent smile, different from Marco’s, yet still very, very similar.  Flashing blue eyes, light blue, lighter even than Krista’s.  That ridiculous, terrible haircut. 

In moments of blissful silence, when I am alone with my own thoughts and the beauty and cruelty they provide in equal measure, another voice pierces over mine – Eren’s, _taunting_ , _sneering_.  His tear-glazed green eyes slice through my mind, cutting through my like I’m made of butter. 

_Was Armin not good enough for you?_

_Why did you choose if he lived or died?_

_What gave you the right?_

And yes, I know that Eren was lashing out, yes, I know that Armin’s death was not my fault, and, most importantly, I know that it wasn’t me that decided whether or not he lived or died.  I know that.  I understand.  However, those venomous thoughts that accompany any wisps of the past one may possess, those murmurs of regret and sorrow and pathetic hatred directed inwards always seem to find a way to turn an entire situation on you.

It isn’t fair.  It isn’t. 

Part of me is mad at Marco – after all, he isn’t any better than Armin.  He’s just an ordinary guy with a nice smile, good money, gentle hands, and a tendency to get my heart racing, but none of that means he should live, that he should receive my affections, as presumptuous as it sounds, when Armin couldn’t.  Part of me hates that.  Part of me hates Marco for making me fall in love with those adorable Cocoa-Eyes. 

Most of me just is mad at myself, with a special burning ember of hatred for the anger directed towards Marco, of all people.  

Don’t I deserve to be happy?  Don’t I deserve to love the people I want to love?  Shouldn’t I live a life free of this guilt?

But, as the walls close around me at some ungodly time after 3 night after night, something else overrules every argument. 

Didn’t Armin deserve that, too?

Thus are the hauntings of my mind. 

 

* * *

 

 

“You’re spaced out today, Jean,” Krista notices, waving a hand in front of my face.  “Sure you’re feeling okay?”

“Huh?”  Blearily, I blink, then furiously shake my head from side to side.  A scowl pulls my lips downwards.  “Yeah, totally.  Doing fine.  Just fine.  Didn’t… sleep a whole lot last night.”  Didn’t sleep at all.  Not at fucking all.  Amazing, the torture a brain will subject itself too. 

“You weren’t out on a Thursday night, were you?”  Krista tsks her tongue, shaking her head.  “Thought better of you, Jean.  Don’t let Ymir catch wind of your hangover, she will not give you a minute’s rest.”

“Too late, wind is caught,” a voice sneers from inside the stable.  Ymir’s freckled face appears in the window, a hand that looks suspiciously propped up with a middle finger alongside it.  “You will not rest even a minute, dickhole.”

“Thanks, Ymir, fuck you too!” I shout, glowering towards her.  “And I didn’t get wasted last night.”  I rub at my eyes until I’m seeing shapes.  “Just didn’t sleep.  Rough night.  Existential crisis.”

“Sounds serious,” Krista hums, frowning.  “I can’t say I’ve never been there myself.  You gonna be awake enough to help Marco with Franz?  Right now, you look dead on your feet.”

“Like shiiiit, loverboy,” Ymir sings, cackling. 

Grimacing, I rake a hand through my hair.  They’re probably right.  I can imagine that I do, in fact, look like shit – I’d taken no time on my appearance today, barely remembered to change clothes this morning.  God, there are probably bags beneath my bloodshot eyes, I’m probably pasty as shit, my hair is probably a –

“Wow, Jean,” Marco laughs, “you hit the bar last night or what?”

Every muscle in my body tenses – I lurch suddenly, yanking Vera, the pony I’m walking to the exercise rings, sharply.  Gasping, I duck my head, hiding my red-hot blush from him.  I don’t glance his direction for a very, very long time. 

“Jean’s having a bad day,” Krista laughs, her eyes twinkling.  “Someone’s looking forward to the weekend, I do believe.”

“Well, that’s just fine.”  Marco’s laugh is seriously like a peal of church bells – _Jesus fucking Christ it’s not fair_.  “If Jean’s in a bad mood, then we can always push back Franz’s next training session.  I need to try riding him again, anyway.”

“’Kay.”  I flash my gaze up to him, for seconds merely, and _fucking shit on a stick_ , he’s looking at me with those Cocoa-Eyes.  The morning sun flickers through them, refracting in little rings of hazel and gold.  What was supposed to be only a brief glance turns into an intense gazing session.  I blame Marco’s eyes – their sincerity, their innocence, their overwhelming warmth. 

My stomach tingles suddenly.  Marco’s goddamned doe-eyes flutter after a second, and his cheeks flush pink.  The smile pulling at his lips turns bashful and cute and fuck I want to fuck him. 

Right? 

I want to fuck him, right?

That’s what this low, smoldering heat in my gut usually means. 

“So.”  Marco clears his throat.  He pats Vera once on the nose as he passes on the opposite side of my pony, flashing me a smile that’s now nervous over her ears.  “I’ll see you around.  Hopefully, on the back of a horse, and not thrown onto the ground.”

“You be careful!” Krista chastises, slapping the back of Marco’s hand with the end of her lunge-line.  “That horse is going to break your back, Bodt!”

“No, he won’t, actually!” Marco giggles cheerfully, pointedly ignoring my gaze (which, in all fairness, I would be too, considering I’m staring unblinkingly at him with eyes as round as quarters).  “Franz is getting much better.  …Not perfect, but better.”

“Right, right.”  Rolling her eyes, Krista kicks some sand at him, pursing her lips to hide a grin.  “Get outta here, Bodt, and don’t die.”

“I’ll try my hardest to obey your wishes!”

“Be safe,” I mumble, watching him go.  “Don’t die.”

Marco glances back at me for just a second, the sunlight ringing around his irises, turning his dark brown eyes sable for half a second.  A tender expression touches his face, and he salutes playfully.  My heart just about leaps out of my chest.  It threatens to burst through my ribcage and crawl after Marco, if only to get one more glimpse of those gorgeous freckled cheeks. 

Not that his ass has a bad view. 

I can do both. 

 

* * *

 

“Well, that’s just the thing,” I moan into the phone.  “I don’t want to see him again.  I don’t want to be gay.  I don’t – I don’t need that shit in my life.”

In the background of Krista’s end of the line, I hear Ymir shout a quick, “Oi, you can’t be homophobic if you’re homo, asshat!”  Krista shushes her aggressively, hissing something unintelligibly away from the speaker of the phone, before returning to Jean with her sweet, angelic voice. 

“Jean, baby, it’s not a bad thing to be gay,” Krista soothes.  “Plenty of people are.  So if it’s that you’re afraid of –”

“I ain’t afraid of nothing!” I shout, feeling a slight twang of guilt.  “There ain’t nothing wrong with the way you live your life, Krista, or you, Ymir, it just ain’t me!  I’m not… I’m not that man.”

Krista is silent for a moment.  “Baby, it’s okay to be confused about this sort of stuff, it’s totally natural.  And if you’re decide you’re more into girls anyway, that’s okay, too.  Marco will understand.  He’s an angel like that.  He understands.”

“No, no, he might, but you don’t,” I groan, shoving the heel of my hand into my eye and rubbing absentmindedly my contact out of position.  “Marco isn’t superman.  He hides shit that you don’t understand, and that I don’t, either.  He’s hella close to breaking himself, and he doesn’t need me faking out on him to add to that.”

“So…”  Krista pauses.  “You’re afraid of breaking Marco’s heart, then?”

“I…  Yeah, partially?  It’s more than that.  That’s if I even get the balls to talk to him.  But what if it’s, like, a man-crush?  I mean, I still totally like girls – what if this is just some weird fluke – I mean, I can’t be gay, can I?”

The sound of shuffling, Krista’s surprised squeak, and a gruff growl of, “Oh, give me the fucking phone, sweetheart!” overwhelms the other line.  Jean waits impatiently for the lovergirls to finish with their tussle.  Finally, Ymir’s voice spits through the speaker at him, venom sinking into his hide with every word. 

“Get off your fucking twelve-year-old ass, Kirschtein, and realize that you like this man.  Not because he’s got a great ass, because he does, or because he’s hot as hell, because he is, but because you fucking like him.  Your sexuality don’t matter if you love a person for that person.  For fuck’s sake, don’t be so quick to call yourself gay – there’s a world of queer opportunities!”

“That’s right!” Krista pipes up, her voice muffled.  “Bi, pan, demi, all the romantics – or don’t define yourself at all.”

“You could be Marco-sexual,” Bertholt suggests in the background, and I jump – he’s been quiet for so long, I’d forgotten that he’s with them, too. 

“Marco-sexual.”  I can hear the sarcasm dripping in Ymir’s voice.  “Great fucking job, Bert.  Is his how I’m going to spend all my Saturdays from now on?  Discussing sexualities with various members of my girlfriend’s social circles?  What even _is_ Marco-sexual?  What does that fucking mean?”

Krista wrestles the phone away from her girlfriend as Ymir and Bertholt explode into a discussion about the specifics of one identifying as Marco-sexual.  Sighing heavily, she says a quick apology, and launches back into the conversation. 

“But you shouldn’t define yourself on any one term, regardless.  If you’re not sure who you like, just go with the flow.  People can take it really weirdly if you say you’re one thing – like gay – and end up being bi.  And I doubt Marco would care if you were into guys and girls.”

“I guess.”  I fidget with the cuff of my flannel, pulling at a stray string.  “But… do you guys know if Marco’s even into anybody?"

“Marco…”  Krista crafts her words carefully.  “Marco’s very, um, very keen on keeping his social life quiet.  We don’t know what he does outside of the stables.”

“He’s still a client,” Ymir reminds me, her voice rough and nasty.  “We don’t have any business knowing who that boy fucks.”

“So, he could be fucking everyone and anyone, then.”

“Jesus, Jean,” Bertholt scoffs distantly, distaste clear in his voice, “do you seriously believe that little Marco keeps a harem of gay lovers?”

“He’s hoping that the name ‘little Marco’ doesn’t hold any truth to it,” I hear Ymir whisper loudly. 

“I know it sounds weird, but –”  I grind my knuckles against my temple, willing away my headache.  “If I’m going to commit to this whole gay thing, I don’t… I don’t want to just have it be some pathetic fling.  If I’m going to commit to the gay, I want him to commit, too.  Y’know.”

“That…”  Krista squeals softly, giggling.  “That is seriously adorable.  Jean, you’ve got to trust Marco.  He’s friendly, but he doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve.  Give him a little bit of trust, give yourself a little bit of love –”

“If you know what she means,” Ymir cackles. 

“– and you’ll be surprised, I promise.”  The sound of something being thrown and Ymir’s _oof_ of pain comes the other end of the line.  “You’re both incredible boys.  I hope you can figure it all out.”

I sigh heavily.  “We'll have to see, Krista.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Jean, man.”  Bertholt nudges me with his elbow, his eyebrows furrowed with concern.  “At least try to pay attention.  This stuff is going to be on the final.”

“Pay attention for me,” I grunt, swirling my fingers over the desk, pretending to write down notes as the professor goes over the finer points of educating children about Picasso’s inclusions of breasts and dicks. 

“Jean…”  Raking a hand through his hair, Bertholt regards me sheepishly.  “You need to focus.  Marco is just Marco.  Calm down about that.”

“Ain’t about Marco.”  Scowling, I draw a figure eight over the wood.  “Not thinking about freckled ass.  Just tired.”

“That so?”  Bertholt watches me in the corner of his knowing eyes, pity making his lower lip quiver.  “If you want, I can go fishing with Reiner – try to figure out a little more about Marco from him.  If it’s bothering you.  Would you like that?”

“Do whatever.”  Suddenly, I stiffen.  “You didn’t tell Reiner about this, did you?”

“Of course not,” Bertholt soothes.  “I’m not an idiot.  Reiner will never have to learn about any of this.  I’ll never tell him.”

“You better not tell Reiner.”  I eye him suspiciously, glaring fierily towards the gentle giant.  “I’m trusting you not to tell him anything.  Fish, look for boyfriends, but nothing else.”

“Top secret,” Bertholt swears solemnly, lifting a hand as if taking a presidential oath.  “He won’t hear a word.”

 

* * *

 

“So, I hear you’ve got the hots for Freckles.” 

I slam the stall door roughly shut, causing the hinges to rattle and squeal in protest.  In the stall, Levi tosses his head back and whinnies furiously.  Paying him no heed, I throw my head back and shout to the rafters, “ _Goddammit, Bertholt!_ ”

“Hey, hey, hey, now.”  Reiner leans against the stable doorframe, smirking, his arms crossed over his chest.  “No need to get angry.  Wanting to bang Marco is totally something understandable.  I get it.  Your dick has good taste.”

“Shut the fuck up, Reiner,” I snap, wheeling around and stalking out the opposite hallway, my ears burning.  “I don’t need this right now.”

“Irritable, irritable,” Reiner sighs, following me through the hallway.  “Fear not, though, little gay; Marco has a thing for flat-asses.”

“Stop looking at my ass,” I snap at him over my shoulder.  “Go away.  I don’t want you following me.  It’s a Monday and I’m already going to throttle your boyfriend, so fuck off.”

Reiner’s eyes narrow.  “No, actually, you’re not going to end Bert’s life prematurely.  And I am here to give you friendly advice, friend.  Bertie told me you were freaking out about this whole gay thing, and I thought I’d just give you a nice little talk-over about the bees and the bees.”

“Go away, Reiner,” I snarl, storming out of the stable, heading pointedly towards the pony mares pasture to collect Dixie for her private lesson.  The stench of shit riding on the wind doesn’t do anything to help my mood. 

“Not one for discussions, then?”  He laughs lewdly behind me, the sound of his footsteps growing closer and putting a chill down my spine.  Voice lowered to a husky purr, Reiner murmurs, “That’s okay, why talk when you can do?  You need the experience, then?  Bertholt and I would be glad to oblige both ends of the bees and the bees…”

My hair stands on end.  “God, go find someone else to fuck with!” 

His smoky chuckle brings a tremor of fear to my stomach, and I feel like running.  “Don’t be like that, I know –”

“Reiner.” 

Atop a black steed gleaming with the light of morning, Prince Charming arrives.  Batman canters sideways with one of those special dressage moves of his, but, judging by the way Marco raps the crop against his shoulders, it wasn’t what he’d wanted.  The horse prances in place a few moments before quieting unwillingly, at Marco’s insistence.  His horse’s disobedience only adds to the freckled boy’s displeasure. 

“We’ve talked about this.”  Keeping his distance, Marco lets Batman trot back and forth nervously.  His eyes are flat, the corners of his lips pulled downwards.  “Stop flirting with stablehands.  Thomas has already reported you.  Another and they’ll seriously kick you out.”

Reiner sticks out his lip.  “Worry-wart.  You’ll protect me.  I know you will.”

“Do you now?”  Marco rolls his eyes.  “You’re going to be surprised, then, when you find yourself searching for a new place to board Grimm.”  Satisfied with his lecture, Marco relaxes slightly in the shadow, loosening the reins for Batman.  His gaze moves to me, and his entire face softens.  “He’s not bothering you too much, is he?”

“N-no…”  Quickly, I shake my head.  I’m blushing like a schoolgirl, and my tongue feels like a balloon in my mouth.  “N-no, it’s fine.  I… can handle it.”

Marco glances down at Batman and his expression shifts into one of horror – oh thank God he’s dismissing my weird behavior as a side-effect of the horse.  Laughing nervously, Marco tries to quiet the black stallion.  Anxious glances kept being passed in my direction. 

“Okay.  You just let me know if he ever becomes too much.  …I’ll go in just a second.”

“’Kay.”  My smile feels weak, like someone had painted it on.  Reiner snorts beside me, and I guess it looks as pathetic and awkward as it seems.  “I… will I be seeing you at the gate today, or…?”

“No, actually, sorry.”  Marco sounds sincerely apologetic and it’s adorable.  “I’m going out on a trail ride with a few friends this afternoon with Polo, and it takes a few hours to drive there.  I’m going to exercise Batman, then take my leave.”

Goddammit, Freckles, stop smiling that broadly.  It’s not something to smile about.  I won’t be able to watch you jump today.  I won’t be able to watch the sweat slide down his face, to see his ass collide with leather after every jump…

“Friends?” I find myself asking, my voice perhaps a bit thicker than usual. 

“Yeah, a few jumping buddies – I’ll be facing them in this weekend’s competition, so we figured –”  Marco shrugs, a flicker of something less confident appearing for a half a second.  “Why not get together?  It’s been so long, after all…”

“Well, have fun.”  I flash him my best snarky smile, but Reiner snorts again, so I suppose it’s still not very convincing.  “…I’ll be here.  With the horses.”

Marco glances at Batman again, blushing with what I suppose is guilt.  “Alright.  I’ll leave him in good hands, I guess.  I hope I’ll get another chance to say goodbye before I go, but, if I don’t…”  Bundling the reins in one hand, Marco gives me a mocking salute.  “See you, Jean.”

“Right.”  I do my best to salute back, but it feels weak.  “See ya.  Bye.”

“Take care, Bodt,” Reiner guffaws.  “Kick their asses.”

His lips quirk into a dryer smile.  Marco nods a farewell, then digs his heels into Batman’s side.  Shaking his mane out with a grunt of sorts, the black horse prances into action, launching into his trot with a little more zest than I deem necessary.  I try to ignore the way Marco’s ass bounces against the leather saddle, I really do, but… 

I see why Ymir likes watching Krista ride so much. 

“My offer still stands, lover boy,” Reiner leers, jaunting me from my daydream.  “For now, this: don’t go gaping at him like that.  It’s so easy to see through you.  I’d hate for Marco to get the wrong idea…”

 

* * *

 

Later that day, I’m mucking out a stall with nothing short of a scowl.  The pony it belongs to remains tether crudely outside the stall doorway, socializing with the horse in the stall nextdoor, as I scoop out the woodchips that were displeasing to her Highness Rico.  Normally, I’d be halfway home by this time, soothing the oncoming headache with some Pearl Jam.  But that’s not the case. 

 _Maybe it’s a good thing I stayed behind_.  A sweet, hesitant voice calls down the stable hallway, and a freckled face appears in the doorway of the stable. 

“J-Jean?”

“Hey, Freckles, what’s –”  I freeze. 

Tears swim in Marco’s eyes.  They’re huge and glassy, rimmed with red and slightly bloodshot.  His arms are curled around himself protectively, and his lip quivers.  My heart thumps painfully in my chest – I hate seeing him look so vulnerable, so miserable. 

I throw the rake against the wall and stride strongly towards him.  “Hey, hey, Marco, man, the fuck is wrong?”

“Nothing.”  He smiles brittly and wipes at his nose.  Obviously, it’s _not_ nothing.  Seeing him like this builds a lump in my throat.  “…Just having a bad day’s all.  I can take over with this, if you want to go home.”

“Nuh-uh.”  I rest a hand on either of his shoulders and glare at him until he meets my gaze.  “You’re going to tell me what’s fucking with you, alright?  Okay?”

Marco glances hesitantly towards the ground – uneasily, he fiddles with the bolt on the stable door, biting his lip.  I wait patiently as he stalls, knowing that it’s only a matter of time before he breaks. 

Horses whicker and stamp their feet.  The sun sinks lower in the sky.  The emotion in Marco Bodt’s eyes grows more and more intense, becoming so powerful that he bites his lip to hold back a sob.  It rips up from his chest, grotesque and raw like it’s tearing apart his lungs, and a single tear streaks down his cheek.  I clutch his shoulder with one hand and use a finger to swipe it away, gently cleaning off his face. 

“Shh, Bodt, it’s okay.  You can tell me,” I croon.  The heartbeat in my chest splutters pathetically as he averts his eyes, his shoulders rocking beneath my hands in silent weeps. 

My throat tightens as one of his hands move out to clutch at my shirt, his fingers knotting tightly in the fabric.  He’s desperately holding onto me as if I’m a lifeline, as if afraid to let go, lest I fade away. 

“I promise you,” I whisper, my voice strained nearly beyond recognition.  Swallowing, I try again with only marginal improvement.  “I promise you I’ll listen.  Okay?”

“Okay.”  His voice is raspy and thick, laden with tears.  “Look… I didn’t enjoy myself as much as I thought I would on the trip.”  He glances at me through his eyelashes, another tear close to spilling over.  “It was supposed to be a friendly chat between competitors, and I guess for most of them, it was.”

“It wasn’t for you?”  I resist the urge to cup his cheek and stroke along the edge of his cheekbone to get him to calm down.  “Jerks?  Homophobes?  What was it?”

“A bit of both of those, actually.”  Marco chews at his lip, refusing to meet my gaze – a strand of his hair dances across his forehead, and his eyes gleam with vividly golden sunlight.  “Jerks, homophobes, and an ex.”  His voice grows softer, heavier, and he grows even smaller.  “It wasn’t fun.”

“Jesus, Marco…”  My heart constricts, each of its beats pained and tight, like a bird struggling to fly within the bars of a cage.  “C’mere, man.”

Without thinking about it, I throw my arms around his neck and hug him tightly against me.  He doesn’t seem to think about it much, either, his one hand unclenching from my shirt.  His arms form a powerful X across my back, flattening my body against his. 

I can feel him shivering slightly against me; every breath he takes trembles, unstable and erratic.  I gasp softly as he clutches me tighter against him, his fingers rubbing sensual patterns into my shoulders.  His massages provoke a shiver out of me.  Nosing against his sweaty neck, I grip him tighter, rocking him from side to side. 

“People are assholes,” I growl to him softly, somehow angry and tender at the same time and – _fuck_ , I am _tender_ , Jesus Christ.  He’s going to see right through me.  Scrambling to recapture our usual mood, I tack on a quick, “I’m just less of an asshole.”

“You’re not an asshole.”  Marco’s breath feathers through my hair, his voice dark and husky.  I do my damnedest to convince myself it’s because he’s close to tears, that the deep velvet in his tone is caused by the sobs he’s trying to hold down, but it doesn’t quite work.  “You’re actually just the opposite.  ‘S why I trust you so much.”

_Oh, fuck, Marco, Jesus, man, not while I’m all pressed up against you like this, mission fucking abort, mission fucking abort…_

I pull back from him somewhat sharply, but it can easily be dismissed as part of the urgency I have as I clasp my hands on both of his shoulders and give him a steely glare.  “Trust me when I say that you are a perfect little freckled shit, then, Marco.  Don’t you worry about those assholes.  You’re fucking perfect.”

Adorable roseblooms appear in his cheeks.  The misery in his gaze turns into something… something different, I’m not sure.  Something more sparkly, some more innocent, with wider eyes and a calmer, cocoa-brown.  The term “stars in his eyes” comes to mind. 

“Thank you, Jean.”  Suddenly, I’m very aware of the way his hands linger on my hips, and the way mine on his shoulders.  “You’re… very sweet.  But, honestly…”  He hesitates, glancing away, and I try not to focus too much on the way he bites at his lip, but, hot damn, it’s there and it’s sexy as hell.  “If you want… to head home, I can hold down the fort here.  It’s no big deal.”

“I wouldn’t mind your company,” I relent, “but I’m not leaving.  Rico’d have my hide.  I’d get the boot in less than five seconds.”

“Oh, okay.”  Marco’s eyes still seem a little glassy, but he’s better now.  There is hardly a quiver left in his voice, and he seems relatively calm.  Not wholly alright, but relatively calm.  “You’re the last one here other than Thomas, and that’s just because he’s taking the night shift.  Would you mind if I…?”

“Pull up a chair, man.  Rest your ass.”

Marco smiles gratefully, releasing a terse exhale, as if he’d been legitimately frightened I’d turn him down.  “Thanks, Jean.  I – I wouldn’t spring this on you if I knew… that they’d all be great big bags of dicks.”

“Watch it, or I’m going to hug you again,” I growl, pretending not to notice the way he wipes his eyes and sniffs for his own sake.  Picking up the rake to continue where I’d left off, I add, “They didn’t walk all over you, right?  You at least got a few good blows in?  Kicked their asses at riding horses?”

“Of course I kicked there asses on _Polo_.”  Marco first closes, then leans against the stall door.  He props his face up on one arm, squishing his freckled cheeks.  Almost all traces of his tears are nearly gone from his twinkling eyes – his eyes are especially beautiful today, the sunlight creating rings of gold I haven’t seen there since that evening with the Polo Picture Portfolio Project. 

Hesitating, Marco adds in a quieter, more personal tone, “And I haven’t been a doormat since the good old days of high school.  Reiner, he’s a pervert and he’s obnoxious, but he taught me to never, ever let them see when you’re hurt.  You know what they say about wolves smelling fear.”

“Right, right.”  I wonder if his cheeks would look that cute if they were, say, smashed against a mattress or shoved against the wall.  Probably.  “So, your… ex…?”

“Not fun business.  If you don’t mind, I don’t want to elaborate.”

“Fine by me, man.”  I wonder if he’s got freckles all over his body.  I mean, I know his torso is like a fucking leopard, but do the freckles go… everywhere?  Does Marco Bodt actually have a freckled ass?  Shivering off the thought, I say in a tone slightly-too-strained, “How exactly did you kick their asses in pleasure-riding?”

Marco launches into a tirade about the many different ways you can absolutely _fuck up_ the people you’re riding with on trails, his eyes twinkling like a little, plump-cheeked imp.  _He could be a great storyteller,_ I realize, surprised, listening intently not so much to his words but to the rise and fall of his voice.  _If his writing’s half as good as his speaking, then damn, this boy’s got a talent._

I notice with a touch of amusement that he’s blabbering on a bit, but I don’t stop him.  With each sentence he somehow eloquently splutters out, I can hear the tension in his voice seeping away.  So, talking calms down Marco Bodt?  Strangely, that’s not annoying.

“…And… yeah.”  _Ah, yes, good job, Marco, amazing conclusion there_.  “I’d say I got them back pretty decently.  No one… knew.”

“Good for you, Bodt, proud of you.”  I rub the back of my hand over my forehead, wiping away any sweat or dirt that still clings to me, and grin sideways at him.  “Really, Marco.  I love that you can kick ass and still look like a fucking princess.”

Princess?

Marco blushes beet red.  “Well… I’m glad you’re so nice.  Even if you are a little rough around the edges.”

“I’m a bit more than rough around the edges, Marco,” I scoff.  “I’m rough, and you don’t need to sugarcoat that.  Look…”  I gesture towards the immaculate stall flooring.  “I’m done here, man.  Horse should be pretty fucking happy.  What are you going to do?”

“Probably head home?”  Marco’s brow scrunches.  “I’ve got nothing to do here.  Polo is tuckered out, so I don’t want to exercise him any more… but if you have more work to do, I’ll stick around.”

“Go home, Marco.”  I slap him on the shoulder, smirking and rolling my eyes.  “I’ll text you as much as I can.  Besides, you deserve the peace and comfort of your own house, yeah?”

Why… why is Marco’s answering smile so brittle?

“Yeah, I guess.  I’ll… text you.”  He pauses, looking almost like he wants to tell me something more.  “Yeah.  Keep your phone around.”

 

* * *

 

That night, Marco texts me to absolutely no one’s surprise. 

I see it on my screen.  I see my model calling out for me. 

But for some reason, I don’t answer. 

Instead, I brew some coffee for tomorrow morning.  Instead, I clean the dishes.  Instead, I take out the trash and clean the counters and poof the goddamned pillows and do a whole lot of other shit I wouldn’t even dream about in my worst nightmares. 

It’s because I’m scared.  The intimacy he’d treated me with earlier this evening and the intimacy I’d offered in return spooks me.  I don’t want to be teased for being gay.  I don’t want that.  I don’t want to let Armin down. 

So Marco is alone.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, a dark purple bruise covers half of his face. 

I don’t hear about it from him – I don’t actually see him closer to me than twenty yards.  Just his outline against the hill.  He’s not alone as he walks up the pavement towards the parking lot next to the House on the Hill – both Reiner and Rico seem to be herding him towards his car, hot on his heels like a pair of dogs.  Even Pixis leans over the fence railing and shouts something I don’t quite catch, gesturing Marco away. 

At first, I didn’t think anything of everyone’s behavior towards him.  I saw him jumping Polo earlier – not in his usual pen, in one further away from anybody (I’d hoped and assumed it was because the jumps there were different, and not that he was avoiding me like I was avoiding him).  I smiled and waved sheepishly across the yard at him as he walked Polo back just as the rich bitches were arriving. 

Everything sort of went downhill from there.  

He walked past a gaggle of kids chattering in high-pitched voices with Polo in tow.  One of the girls took one look at him, jumped back five feet, and shrieked like he was holding a knife in his hand.  Marco walked quicker to avoid confrontation, but I was already watching him, wondering what was wrong.  My plan was to talk with him over midday break and apologize. 

The second sign that something was seriously up was when Reiner appeared at the doorway of Stable Sina and had a massive bitch-fit when he saw whatever freaked he girl out.  After quite a lot of shouting and stamping and cracking knuckles, Reiner seemed to win whatever argument was being held.  Marco’s yelp echoed across the yard as Reiner took hold of his ear and dragged him inside. 

Seeing this… it’s the final straw.  Something is seriously, seriously up. 

“What happened there?” I ask, turning to Mina, a sweet girl that somehow handles the riled-up stallions of Stable Sina.  “You took Polo in, right?  You saw Marco?”

She shivers to herself, averting her grey eyes.  “Marco… I don’t know what happened.  I haven’t been here that much longer than you, but… sometimes… Marco shows up looking like he’d been used as a punching bag.  Today – today was the worst I’ve ever seen him.”

“What?”  I yank my pony’s head down viciously accidentally, causing him to whicker in irritation.  “What do you mean?  Like, his bruises?”

“And a cut,” Mina adds, her voice quiet.  “Right here.”  She drags a finger from beneath her ear to her cheekbone. 

“What –”  I splutter pointlessly for a few moments.  “Why does he get those things?”

“It’s not our job to question our clients, Jean,” Pixis says sagely, approaching from behind.  “If you’re not a part of Marco’s life outside of the stables, don’t try to pry into it.  Now, those ponies you both are dumbly sitting there with?  Little girls need those.”

“Right.”  Hurriedly, I yank on the sassy flea-bitten grey pony, Pud, escorting us both towards the pasture where the toddlers will be learning how to clean a horse for the first time (they will know my pain). 

I make sure to turn my back on Mina and on Pixis, keep my gaze hidden from the bitches showing up for riding.  Blood rises to my cheeks, but it’s not in a bashful blush – it’s a weird, self-hating fear.  I gnaw at my lower lip viciously until I taste blood, then shove my fist in my mouth, biting down hard on my knuckles.  My breathing gets heavier and heavier. 

My phone had been buzzing left and right last night.  I hadn’t picked it up to even check my texts because I’d been in a selfishly antisocial mood.  After I’d offered to text him if he needed me.

I pull my fist out of my mouth to run a hand through my hair.  _Asshole.  You are a massive fucking asshole, Jean._

“I fucked up this time, didn’t I?” I sigh, a lump in my throat.  Slowly, I massage the pony’s face, tracing my fingers lightly over the contours and hollows along its nose. 

Snorting, Pud flicks his mane.  _Sure did, buddy._

My mind spins in endless circles.  How could I just leave him alone with all of this?  Just because I’m having some issues with who I want to stick my dick into?  He’d been having a shit-day, and now… now he’s gone. 

Swallowing is much more difficult than it should be.  Fumbling in my pocket, I pull out my phone, hiding it from Rico and Pixis and all the other superior staffmembers lurking about.  I unlock the screen with shaking fingers, open my mail with a touch of dread in the pit of my stomach.

“I am a terrible person,” I whisper to Pud, my voice quaking. 

He paws at the ground with one hoof.  _Knew it all along._

 

**From: My Future Model >>Hey Jean are you there  
** **> >Jean?  
** **> >Jean I really need to talk to someone right now  
** **> >Can I trust you?  
** **> >Where are you?  
** **> >Is this a bad time?**

I grimace, knowing precisely where I was at that time – cleaning out one of the kitchen cabinets.  No, it hadn’t been a bad time at all.  I’d just fucked up. 

 

**From: My Future Model >>I’m sorry if I’m bothering you…  
** **> >Can I call you?  
** **> >…Evidently, I cannot call you  
** **> >Sorry I bothered**

My chest tightens upon the last text. 

 

**From: My Future Model >>Jean?  I really need to talk and I am not okay.**

Was this before or after he got a huge bruise across his face, a bruise big enough to scare children and get him kicked out of the stable he spends every waking hour at?  Was this before or after I rolled my eyes and turned off my phone, not to look at it again until this moment?

_I am not okay._

“Fuck me,” I groan, feeling slightly sick. 

 

**To: My Future Model >>I ignored you last night because i was havng a shitty time but that was not ok and i am not ok with me right now  
** **> >u tell me whatever’s going on and i will be here**

**From: My Future Model >>I’d rather not**

 

* * *

 

“Marco,” I whisper into the phone, miserably stirring at my mug of cocoa, “please, please pick up, man.  I’m so sorry.  I’m so sorry.  I don’t have any right to make any excuses.  I am a miserable shithead of a human being.  And I know I don’t deserve it, and I know I’m being awful for even suggesting that you forgive me, but… please do.”

“Dude,” Connie whispers loudly, astounded.  “That was, like, a major apology.  What did you do?  Cheat on him already?”

“Connie…”  I roll my eyes, slow, exaggeratedly.  “Get the fuck out, please, or get some pants.”

“Yeah, no.”  He snorts, waddling through the kitchen towards the fridge in nothing but his boxers.  “You might be a gay son of a bitch, but you ain’t gay for me.  Therefore, I am refusing to wear pants.”

“Fuck you,” I grumble. 

“You’d better not!” Connie calls, his voice muffled from the inside of the fridge.  “But, seriously, how badly did you fuck things up with the bae?”

“Can’t tell you.”  _Real, real fucking bad.  He hasn’t even texted me back since yesterday.  And that was fucking passive aggressive if I’ve ever fucking seen it_.  “It’s confidential.”

“Yo, Connie, get your pants on, we’re going to Belle Isle!” Sasha whoops from their bedroom, flying through the doorway in a spastic burst of energy, her eyes dancing.  Thrusting her arms up in the air, she jumps as high as she can, blazing a broad grin and a cheer.  “Eren’s got booze and Krista is introducing her girlfriend!  We’re gonna get drunk as fuck!”

Connie hits his head against the top of the fridge as he pulls himself out.  The _clunk_ sounds oddly hollow, but I don’t have any time to bring that up.  They twirl around like fucking fairies, their chattering voices overlapping as they plan out their mischief for the day. 

“Are you coming, Jean?” Sasha gasps, throwing herself to her knees by my chair.  “You said something about ditching classes for today… you could tag along with us!”

“I’m ditching classes so I can get some peace and fucking quiet,” I snap.  My harsh tone would rain on anyone else’s parade, but Sasha just shrugs, rising back to her feet without a pause. 

“Your loss!” she sings.  “Spend your Wednesday alone!  You will have the flat to yourself, so don’t blow the place up…”

“The chances of this place blowing up are much less when you’re not here.”

“Still!” she insists.  “There are chances!” 

“Right, right.”  I roll my eyes.  “Get the fuck out.”

It takes them much, much longer than necessary to get ready.  Connie practically tears the house apart searching for his favorite snapback, and Sasha brings, like, fifty pairs of sunglasses, claiming that everyone will ask her for an extra while they’re at the place.  I don’t necessarily doubt that, but an entire tote of dollar-store sunglasses looks ridiculous as fuck.  They argue and bicker about what to bring and who might be there.  They flirt and flatter one another with those snarky, demonic grins that either mean you’re having a prank played on you or that someone else just had a prank played on them.  I don’t feel safe until they’re gone.  Even then, I don’t feel completely safe. 

At least now I’m alone. 

Alone with the phone lacking any texts from a freckled beauty. 

For the gazillionth time, I pointlessly check my phone.  I’m not surprised in the slightest by the lack of text messages.  Wouldn’t surprise me I never get another text from Marco.  Frustrated, I throw my phone down onto the counter beside my iPod and collapse into my beanbag, sulking around to the rest of the room. 

The knot in my stomach grows impossibly tighter.  Closing my eyes and breathing through gritted teeth, I swallow thickly.  Dammit.  Of course I had to fuck things up.  Of course. 

Because what even is smooth sailing? 

The ceiling is a sienna color, peppered with various water stains from the room upstairs.  I allow my eyes to rove back and forth, memorizing each and every irregular blotch mapping out the mishaps from our neighbors above.  It’s peaceful, and, in a way, it reminds me of Marco’s freckles. 

If I’ve blown this chance with him, what do I even do? 

I squeeze my eyes shut, sucking a breath strangledly into my lungs. 

I realize that I don’t know what I’d even do anymore without Marco.  Marco and his goddamned freckles, the way they speckle over his body in randomly beautiful designs.  Marco and his smile that could warm a planet, with the gentle, approving light it has, like he seeing something he secretly loves.  And Marco’s eyes, the way they shimmer and sparkle and shine, filled with life and all of its complexity. 

That glint he gets in his eyes whenever he’s scolding a horse, firm yet also so, so soft, like a teacher lecturing a tiny child.  The gleam of tears swimming upon the surface, like he’s trying so very hard not to cry, like he thinks that the world is about to attack him the moment he shows weakness.  That warm glow that appears every time he glances at Polo, an unrequited adoration for his beloved stallion and the sense of security the horse provides for him, and the concentrated depth of his gaze as he works with Polo in the ring when every movement and every command matters.  Most importantly, the look he gets in his eyes when he looks at me. 

Slowly, I open my eyes.  The tightness in my stomach unfurls, the nausea becoming a bunch of pathetic fluttering.  A quiet laugh escapes my lips. 

“I am in love with Marco Bodt.”

Repeating it to myself with a shuddering whisper, I laugh shakily, overcome with giddiness.  “I am in love with Marco Bodt.” 

Closing my eyes and leaning back into the couch, I try to envision what a life with him by my side – as my boyfriend – would be like. 

Where would I take him out to eat?  Would he dress too casual or too formal out of nervousness for our date, leaving him adorably embarrassed for the rest of the time?  Would he stutter?  Is eloquent little Marco even capable of stuttering?  Who would be the big spoon?  The little spoon?

I’d like to believe I’d be the big spoon, but… the idea of Marco’s musky, sex-mussed body wrapped around me is incredibly arousing. 

Is Marco the kind of guy that’d deliver the kiss?  Or would he sit there and be bashful and lean close and try to get me to make the first move?  Would he shove his lips against mine?  What would he taste like?  Would we sneak furtive forehead-kisses and ass-slaps around West Trost Acres?  Maybe one day, would Marco drag me into an empty stall and let me fuck him senseless?

Before I can stop myself, a low groan escapes me.  My hand snakes down to palm myself through my sweatpants.  I can already feel my dick hardening.  Well, there goes any last doubt about my sexuality. 

“I love you, Marco,” I croon to the empty apartment, my voice like a caress to the silence.  Rubbing myself harder, I whisper in a quieter tone, “God, Marco… I love you.”

I don’t know if it should feel wrong, stroking myself while thinking of sweet, beautiful Marco.  Maybe I should feel guilty for wondering what he’d sound like moaning around my dick.  A wave of pleasure sweeps through me, and all I can think about is Marco.

I unzip my pants with a moan.  The cool air against my dick makes me hiss.  Wrapping my hand around the shaft, I give myself two slow strokes, coaxing my cock to stand up in my hand.  It isn’t difficult. 

“Mmm,” I hum, rubbing my thumb over my head.  “ _Marco_.”

I shouldn’t be doing this.  Every last thing about this is wrong.  But I can’t seem to make myself stop.  

Mentally, I undress the beautiful freckled model, imagining myself taking off piece after piece of his clothing until he’s sitting on the floor of a studio with nothing at all.  I imagine the flash of my camera over his freckles, the blush on his cheeks.  Would he be the one to first rut against me?  How big would that freckled dick be?

For the sake of my fantasy, I color him as perfect. 

I pump myself nice and slow for a few strokes as I try to even imagine what it’d be like to dry-hump a god like Marco, but it doesn’t keep me satisfied for long.  My strokes become harder, faster, and my fantasies of Marco become more vivid.  A simmering heat settles low in my gut, almost painful, but not in an unpleasant way. 

What would his moans sound like?  His voice, so soft and gentle, roughened by lust is quite possibly the sexiest thing I can imagine.  What would his moans of my name sound like?  The thought of that alone coaxes a husky noise of pleasure from me. 

Marco… what would he look like when aroused?  Would those brown eyes glint with a darker light, or would they still sparkle like stars?  Hmm.  He’d take me in his mouth slowly, flashing his huge, gleaming doe-eyes towards me mischievously.  Nice and slow, he’s swirl his tongue along the underside, taking me inch by inch.  He’d pull back, and then he’d…

I swallow heavily and thrust into my hand. 

Is Marco the type of guy that’d top or bottom?  Fuck, I think I’d be well suited for the top, but the thought of Marco looming over me with eyes lust-darkened eyes…  I purr through clenched teeth, pumping myself harder.  Maybe he’d go either way.  Yeah.  Yeah, I could see him writhing under me, his cute little lips shaping the vowels to barely understandable whines of my name…

“Nnnng,” I groan, getting off to the imaginary groans of a boy that thinks I’m straight.  “Ha – a-ah…”

Marco’d whimper and whine and roll his hips against mine.  His lovely, lovely freckled hips.  That fine ass would slap against me and he’d be moving with me and he’d be so hot and so tight and fuck – fuck –

I hiss shamelessly, moaning low and dark.  Thank the lord for thick apartment walls. 

The tight coil in my gut grows impossibly hotter, sending my free hand grappling over the beanbag aimlessly, squeezing mercilessly at the fluffy innards.  With every stroke, the coil grows tighter, hotter, like a spring preparing for release. 

I just need a little bit more.  I gasp and groan, flushing and throwing my head back against an unyielding wall.  The collision of my skull against the drywall is enough to cause a dull throb of pain, but I couldn’t care less.  My hand works fervently over my cock. 

What would he look like, whispering my name as he got closer and closer?  Would he pull at my hair?  His face as he comes… fuck.  It’d be beautiful. 

A few more solid pumps, and it’s lights out for me. 

Rumbling low in my throat, I lean my head back, allowing my come to go wherever it damn well pleases and drowning myself in the bliss of post-orgasm.  My heavy breathing is the only sound in the room – the sounds of Marco’s imaginary moans are gone.  I puff out through my teeth, chuckling low and deep in my chest.  Slowly, I open my eyes, staring up at the ceiling. 

“I am so fucking gay,” I announce to no one in particular. 

It’s not like I expected a response or anything, but the silence that follows is a little looming, possibly because there’s no denial now about my sexuality.  I’d just jerked off to fantasies of me fucking a guy in the ass (and a few of him fucking me).  That qualifies as gay as shit in my book. 

 _Maybe I’m bi,_ I think lazily, smiling to myself like a lovestruck idiot.  _Or Marco-sexual._

Marco-sexual – it sound so ridiculous, and it’s not hard to accept that Bertholt had been the dorky one to come up with it.  Then again, it’s strangely… fitting. 

I think back to all my previous relationships (which is really not all that many) as I fade from my high, brooding thoughtfully.  It’s not like I’d ever felt wrong with a girl – they’re nice, I have to say.  Very soft, very gentle – giggly. 

But so is Marco.  And, admittedly, it’d never really been all that compelling to be with a girl – sure, they’re nice.  Soft and gentle and all that shit.  However, none of them have really compelled me to do anything.  They’ve been a pleasure when they appear, but I’ve never really actively sought them out, never wanted to know anything about them, not pick them apart and put them back together again like I want to with Marco. 

 _Marco-sexual_.  So dorky and yet so fitting. 

Heaving a pleased sigh, I glance around the room.  Connie left a pair of underwear hanging off the corner of the TV, and Sasha’s CDs are a shitty pile next to the dining table.  My eyes linger over my little beanbag corner and all the piles of blankets it’s become, like a birdnest.  I smile to myself, thinking fondly of all the times I’ve fallen asleep thinking of Marco. 

_I should find a song for him._

My eyes sweep around the room, searching intently for my iPod without actually lifting my ass from the couch.  I remember I’d put my phone down right next to it.  My phone… which is currently lit up.  Lit up as if I’d received a text. 

I stare dumbly for much longer than any sane human being should.  The knot that’d been blissfully removed by my wanking returns, making a wreck out of my stomach.  Suddenly, just breathing becomes the most difficult thing I’ve done all day. 

_Is it him?_

I scramble forwards, snatching my phone up from the kitchen counter.  With one hand, I stuff my cock back into my jeans and zip up my fly (as if it matters), and with the other, I shakily unlock the screen.  Tapping on the messages app, I hold my breath, waiting to see…

 

**From: My Future Model >>It’s okay Jean – you’re forgiven  
** **> >Actually I never was all that mad at you  
** **> >I was never mad at you at all  
** **> >Why would you think I was pissed?**

_He’s not mad_.  The lump of guilt melts in my throat, the tension in my body loosening.  It feels like my anxiety is draining, dripping from me in thick, sticky streams.  Each breath becomes easier, like a weight’s been lifted from my shoulders.  Groaning, I collapse forward, landing heavily on my elbows against the counter. 

I touch my forehead against the cool granite.  Thank the fucking lord. 

 

**To: My Future Model >>Sorry i guess i got the wrong idea  
** **> >y didnt u answer any of my txts  
** **> >sorry i wasnt there when you needd to talk…**

 

It takes him literally less than a second to reply.  My heart trembles nearly as violently as my phone as it sidles across the counter. 

 

  **From: My Future Model >>It’s okay, I’m sorry I left my phone in my car!  …I was pissed.  I was… but why should I be, honestly?  Somehow, with 32 texts from you, I got the idea that you were sorry  
** **> >It was a dick move, and yet we are all dicks…  
** **> >So why be mad**

 

**To: My Future Model >>u are literally a perfect human being wtf  
** **> >it will never happen again i swear 2 god  
** **> >so wrong of me to offer my help and then nvr be there  
** **> >god im so pissed at myself**

**From: My Future Model >>Don’t be! >:(  
** **> >I’ll say I was hurt at the time, but seriously, Jean, it’s fine.  You’re obviously sorry.  Why hold a grudge?**

_Why hold a grudge._ Marco, are you even real?

 

**To: My Future Model >>I will make it up to u x1000  
** **> >i promise  
** **> >i was an asshole but im not goin to let that stop me bc u r 2 good 4 shit like me  
** **> >will i c u 2morrow**

**From: My Future Model >>I think so, yeah!  My bruise… should be mostly faded by then.  It’ll be gone by Friday, at least.**

**To: My Future Model >>shit man  
** **> >im not going to force anything on you but u need 2 get help  
** **> >im being completely serious here**

There’s a long pause in the texting – it’s not long enough that there’s no possibility that it’s the end of oncoming texts from Marco, but just long enough to let me know he’s uncomfortable.  Or maybe I’m reading into it too much.  Whatever.  It doesn’t stop me from tacking on one last question. 

 

**> >how much does it hurt?**

His response is instant. 

 

**From: My Future Model >>Not as much as it seems it would, but I can only sleep on one side…  
** **> >Sort of sucks…**

**To: My Future Model >>heard u got a cut 2  
** **> >did u disinfect it  
** **> >those things can get seriously nasty if u leave them open**

**From: My Future Model >>Just refreshed my bandaid :)  
** **> >You’re really adorable when you’re worried, you know.  Like a momma bear  
** **> >Only much more manly ;)**

I puff my chest out, chuckling happily to myself.  He thinks I’m adorable.  And sarcastically manly.  Shaking my head, I muse over that, not entirely sure what to make of it. 

 

**To: My Future Model >>i am the fucking king of manly  
** **> >dont u forget it  
** **> >but seriously bodt  
** **> >from this point on i am going to go out of my way to b there for u  
** **> >i don’t like seeing you hurt like that  
** **> >ur my little freckled angel**

 

I stare at the screen blankly, screaming internally.  My freckled angel?  Goddammit.  No.  No, no, no.  I refuse for my first mindful flirting with him to be over texts.  Why isn’t there a button for me just to take it all back? 

It takes him less time than his usual lightspeed pace to respond.  I don’t know how I feel about that. 

 

**From: My Future Model >>You’re adorable Jean  
** **> >And I’ll let you know next time.  
** **> >I’ve just lost my bravery.  I know I can trust you.  I just have to figure everything out first…**

**To: My Future Model >>thats ok  
** **> >i will b waiting on u hand and foot  
** **> >no not really ull have 2 do some work**

**From: My Future Model >>Okay Jean  
** **> >Look I have to help my sister out with making breakfast… she can’t do much in her wheelchair.  I’ll text you once I’m finished, because she’s trying to get me to watch the Fault in Our Stars with her.  I think I can stall, though. **

**To: My Future Model >>stall away  
** **> >but yeah ill c u  
** **> >bye bye bodt**

 

I don’t get a response, and I don’t expect one.  Instead of pining after Marco, I throw my head back and laugh.  Jesus Christ.  Somehow, that freckled ass is not angry at me.  Somehow, when I royally screwed up, that big ol’ cocoa heart forgave me. 

I love you, Marco Bodt. 

 

**To: My Future Boyfriend >>dont let urself get killed bc im gonna wrap u up in a hugeass hug next time i c those freckles**

 

* * *

“Shit, Jean, there’s not a whole lot to it,” Reiner grunts, lugging around Grimm’s massive saddle and acting as if I’m the biggest annoyance on this earth.  “Marco is a sap.  If you wanna bang him, do something sappy.”

“Like what?” I press, loping beside him.  It’s hard to keep up with his brisk, long-legged strides.  Almost like he’s trying to leave me behind or something.  “I mean, you know the guy so well – what does he like?”

“He likes independent assholes that figure shit out on their own.”  Exaggeratedly, Reiner rolls his eyes.  “Figure it out yourself.  What does Marco like most in the world, Jean?”

“Polo,” I blurt.  “Polo.  He loves his horse.  Flowered necklaces?  Maybe not…  Writing.  He said he likes to write.  Um.  What else does he like?”

“Well, you named two good ones right there.  Just, like, romance-ify them.”  Reiner elbows me perhaps a little rougher than necessary (read as: he sends me stumbling back, like, five feet).  “Listen, I ain’t so good with all that romancing shit – you talk to me later once it gets to the banging, and I’ll tell you how to make that dog beg.”

“Reiner, no,” I growl, but he ignores me.

“Go to Krista.  Or Ymir.  Or both.  Females in general are better at that shit.”

“Sexist.”  I rub at my eye with my knuckles, sighing heavily.  “Anyway, Krista might not have the greatest advice on wooing men.  You have any more pearls of wisdom?  I just thought, since you’re his best friend…”

“Polo is probably your best bet, since you haven’t read any of his writing.  Do something sappy with his horse.”  His slight tolerance turns into heavy annoyance before my eyes.  “There.  Now.  Go.  The fuck.  Away.”

“Fine.”  Inevitably, my eyes flicker over to where Marco is lunge-lining Franz, watching the curve of his back muscles through the tighter-than-usual T-shirt clinging to his body.  “Okay.  Yeah.  I’ll… do that.”

Reiner rolls his eyes and lumbers off, mumbling something about horny, underappreciative newbies.  Frankly, I don’t take the time to listen.  I’m a bit preoccupied with my thoughts, to be completely honest. 

I chew at my lip, standing there awkwardly in the crossroads between stables for a few moments.  I’d hoped Reiner would have some sort of inspiration for something lovely and charming for Marco, because I’m just a lost cause on all things romance.  Hopefully, his lead on Krista will get me somewhere.  I’m not sure what I’d do if it didn’t. 

Marco had seemed so happy today when he first saw me; his eyes lit up like a Christmas tree.  It was so fucking adorable.  The pressure is on – I have to make this boy mine.  And doing something sweet seems like the best way to do it. 

So where would Krista be?

It seems like a typical Thursday, it really does.  The horses lazily trot through their designated pastures or paw at the sawdust in their stalls.  Yellow sunlight filters through the clouds, warming the ground to a perfect degree.  Rico is leading a private lesson on jumping in one ring with a girl that could either be in middle of high school, I’m not sure which.  Reiner is off his ass and doing something productive.  Marco is smiling to himself as he works.  I’m trying and failing not to notice how he’s glancing over at me with a grin, and I’m also glancing in his direction when I’m almost sure he’s not paying attention.  Krista is using our break hour to sext Ymir behind Stable Rose. 

I poke my head around the corner of the building, spotting her head of goddess-gold hair on the opposite side of a rain barrel.  “Hey, Krista, can I drag you away for half a second?”

“ _No_ ,” she answers cheerfully.  “You can come and sit beside me and vent if you need to, though.”

“No, it’s not – no venting, I promise.”  Awkwardly, I sit down in front of her, folding my legs together like a preschooler.  “I actually sort of need your advice.  …You know how to be… sickeningly sweet, don’t you?”

Krista’s eyes flit up from the screen, her eyebrows arching over a knowing gaze.  “Sweet enough to impress Marco?”

“Exactly.”

“Actually,” Krista grins, putting down her phone and adjusting her position so that it’s mirroring mine, “I have an idea of something he might enjoy.  I was fantasizing about ways you to sweep him off his feet.  How much are you willing to sacrifice for Marco?”

“Um.  What do you mean by that?”

She regards me pensively, her blue eyes narrowed slightly.  “I’ve noticed that… you’re not helping out any with Marco’s competition this weekend.  Are you doing anything…?”

“Krista, I am a sarcastic, antisocial asshole with no friends.  Of course I am doing nothing.”  I hesitate.  “But I don’t think that tending to Polo at the competition would be the fuck-me-on-the-spot cheesiness I’m going for.”

“Right, right,” she says, nodding her agreement.  “No, I totally get that.  But I was thinking – one of the sweetest things you can do for someone is just to be there at something that means a lot to them.  So my thoughts are that you just watch him compete.  That you arrive there.  That you don’t contact him until he’s over.  And when you do, you just swamp him in praise and if he says, ‘Omg Jean I didn’t know you were here!’ you have to say, ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.  I’ll always be here.’  Marco would literally just die.”

“That is…”  I blink a few times, a slow grin spreading over my face.  Giddy butterflies begin their fluttering in my stomach.  “That’s genius.  Krista.  I could kiss you.”

“How about no,” she says cheerfully.  “But if you want to go the extra mile… and ask him out…”

“I totally want to.”  Swallowing thickly, I flash her a terse grin, deciding to trust little Krista if no one else.  “Marco is going to be mine.  I want all his sweet freckles.”

Krista’s grin is alarmingly wolfish – maybe Ymir’s starting to rub off on her.  “Then we’ll have to get Reiner in on this plan.  But do you think you can hold down your teenage fangasms tomorrow?  Because you’ve got to suffer through a Friday…”

I wave a hand dismissively.  “Don’t worry about that, and call in the entire military, I don’t care.  Just spill this idea of yours.”

“With my help, Jean Kirschtein, you are going to charm that boy right off his feet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...So that was my miserable attempt at writing sexy...
> 
> ...Glad that happened...
> 
> Whatever, it needed to happen. More awkward sexy attempts later to come. Yay. Constructive criticism?
> 
> Love you guys. See you in the comments.


	10. Levi and Scary Pirate/Bodyguard Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean bumps into someone he never thought he would, ever again, and at last light is shed upon his phobia...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait. This one is like, super-long, though, and it was a hard-ass bitch to write.  
> Like, um, said character?  
> Said brother OC?  
> I originally wanted him to be one of the minor characters, Samuel. But that ended up not happening because, although Samuel's character is like, totally insignificant, I didn't want him to be OOC. So. I ended up making an OC and basing him off of my headcanon Darco. But then I had to find an Italian name and good Italian boy names consist entirely of Marco and Antonio. I refused to call him Antonio, so... you guys got stuck with Gabriele. Because it's not bad and Marco secretly calls him Gabby. 
> 
> That said. I loved talking to you guys last chapter. Even though I didn't get to some of yours until, like, yesterday. Y'all are so cute and everything you say makes me so happy. 
> 
> Without further ado...

Marco is walking alongside the big horse with the prosthetic leg along the pathway between the separate jumping pens, keeping the old horse at a steady, unwavering pace.  With slight fascination, I watch the horse move that metal leg – though I doubt it’ll ever manage to gallop or even canter again, it seems pretty nimble, considering. 

Another taller man leans back on the fence, his head moving back and forth as Marco trots and walks Commander Handsome to and fro.  I hear fragments of a rough, scaly voice calling out to him, telling him to maneuver the Commander this way or that. 

 _Maybe that’s just Erwin’s rider,_ I ponder, shooting the middle-aged man a quizzical glance.  It’s strange, though, that someone might want to spend so much money on getting a prosthetic limb for a horse, then never show up…  I’d just assumed he was a charity case of the farm’s.

I shake my head, freeing my thoughts, and plod down the road towards Stable Maria to report in to Gabriele, gravel crunching underfoot.  The air inside of the stable doesn’t reek quite so bad today – last night’s rain probably freshened the place up a bit.  Taking another sip of my coffee, I wave a halfhearted greeting towards Levi (little bastard presses his ears against his head and shrilly whinnies in reply) and slip into the tack room. 

Now, the tack rooms have always been a place of “sanctuary” inside West Trost Acres – maybe the only place on this half of the farm that doesn’t smell like shit (instead a bit like leather and cleaning supplies), it’s a nice little place just to plop down and do nothing in.  Not only are they some of the only places with available heating in the winter, but with air conditioning in the summer.  The sunlight is pleasant, and there’s a few tattered community books in each one (provided by Marco, I’m told). 

That said, I’m not prepared for both Reiner and Ymir hiding beneath the saddles. 

Uncomfortable silence spans from the moment I spot them, jumping back and spilling scalding coffee over my hands.  They’re crouching next to a tack bench of spare bit parts, heads bowed and legs tucked into themselves.  Two pairs of big, wide eyes meet mine, pleading quietly. 

“Do I want to know?”  Irritatedly, I slam my coffee down on the table.  “What you fuckers are up to, I mean?”

“Hide,” Ymir hisses.  “Run and hide.”

“Or don’t give us away,” Reiner adds, scooting further back under a saddle.  “I don’t care, honestly.”

“Right, you lunatics.  Ymir, you want to finish my coffee?  I’ve got to get the ponies into their pastures by myself, thanks to you.”

“Gimme.”  She claws her hands forward like a grabby little child.  “I need my caffeine if I’m going to sit here without falling asleep.  Gotta stay on guard.”

“Does this have anything to do with that man with Marco?” I ask.  Both of them blanch, lips narrowing into tight lines.  “Right.  Okay.  Any advice?”

“Don’t stare at his eyepatch,” Reiner advises quietly.  “He nearly beat me into a pulp once…”

“Run,” Ymir says levelly.  “Run as fast and as far as you can.”

With a reinstated fear of the unknown, I shuffle out of the tack room, closing the door tightly behind me.  Nervously, I pick at my fingers, listening to the whinnies of the more vocal ponies echo through the stable.  As much as I try to convince myself that they’re probably just shooing me out so they can smoke something, the memory of the man’s gravelly voice lingers in my memory. 

We can let the little ponies stampede back into their stalls after some time in the pasture, but we can’t let them canter out, so I have to walk every pony there by hand.  Quimble, the lucky bastard, is first.  It’s sort of pathetic, but I feel like the fat little guy doesn’t really deserve a head-start on the whole grazing thing. 

Whatever, it’ll give me another glance at the mystery man. 

Fortunately for me, Quimble, though he’s a glutton with no coordination, is good at following my lead when I’m dragging him along on a halter.  I catch my breath, heading down the corridor towards freedom.  For a moment, I hesitate in the doorway, caught in a second’s time of doubt, before walking out into the meager morning sunlight. 

The stables in West Trost Farms are located in a sort of triangle.  It allows for all fronts of the stables to meet in one commonplace littered with horrendously spring-green grass and snowy white picnic benches.  Between the wedges created by the stables, the pens are fit, spreading out like wings and spanning over the rest of the hill and into the distance for a fair way.  Only one third of our area is hidden by shaded woods. 

Now, normally, I’d go through the back-entrance of Stable Maria, towards the trails towards the pony pastures.  It’s a simple way to go, instead of looping around the stable like an idiot.  But, hey, I’m not known for coherent thinking when Marco’s around, and… I happened to hear him laughing. 

It’s a happy, carefree sort of laugh, too.  Clear as a bell, light.  Infectious.  Usually the sort of thing he uses when he’s laughing at my jokes or at a face I make that’s particularly amusing to him.  The sound of it warms my heart slightly, A smile is already curling at my lips as I step out of the stable.  It freezes on my face as I realize my terrible, terrible mistake. 

“Oh!”  Marco’s bright, bubbly voice echoes over the plain.  “Hi, Jean, I didn’t know you were here yet!"  

Marco looks good as fuck today, with a nice button-down, an easygoing smile… his hair is actually fixed…  Goddamn, I wanna see what his ass looks like in those jeans.  Over his shoulder looms a tall man, half-drenched in the shadow of the barn. 

“I came right on time," I murmur.

A chill creeps down my spine; I shiver against my will.  My breathing measures into a soft wisp more than anything, and I can’t shake the feeling that the stranger’s watching me.    

“Really?”  Marco frowns, rubbing the muzzle of Erwin to extend the horse’s patience and allow for a few more seconds of conversation.

In the corner of my eye, I watch the tall man, waiting for a blink that never arrives.  Or something.  Anything.  Any sort of facial twitch besides the cold, stony mask he wears.  Eventually, the man blinks slow as molasses, like a bird of prey or something before it dives for the kill. 

Resisting a shiver that’d soothe my curdling blood, I flash Marco a nervous smile.  “Six thirty sharp.  You know that.”

“Oh, right.  …I also know you end up coming in at six forty-five more often than not,” he giggles, scratching adorably at his nose.  “You pumped up on coffee, or do I need to make a run to the House on the Hill for everyone’s benefit?”

“Nah, I got the caffeination down, don’t worry.”  I manage a wink, but it feels a bit like a spasm over my face.  “Ymir stole it, though.  You know why she’s hiding in the tack room, by the way?”

Couldn’t possibly be tall, dark and scary standing right behind you, could it? 

Marco cringes, glancing nervously back at his guest. 

Yeah, that’s what I thought. 

 “…Oh… I’ll have to talk to her.  Look, Jean, this is Gabriele.”  Marco’s eyes abruptly snap to mine with blazing intensity, like he’s trying to mentally beam me a message.  “He came a day early and surprised me here at the stables!”

“Wouldn’t miss your competition, cutie,” the dark voice rasps, one of his hands reaching out to ruffle Marco’s finely combed hair, much to my dismay.  “Had to get here a day early to see how my babies were doing, of course, but I’d come even earlier if I could.”

“Is this palomino yours?” I squeak, trying with all my might to greet him in a civil fashion, looking up to his face and praying that he won’t glance my direction.  “…He’s very pretty.”

“You’re damn right, he’s very pretty.”  One cold brown eye meets mine, its dark color nearing on black.  “And he ain’t a palomino.  He’s a gold champagne.  I take it that this is Jean, Marco?”

Marco nods a few times, and his warning gaze becomes panicky, as if I’d done something wrong.  “Yeah, this is Jean…”

“Nice to meet you, Jean.”  His voice sounds layered, as if he’s carefully holding emotions out of it.  “Try not to stare too much.  I’m still plenty capable of many things.”

“I…”  

Gabriele is unwaveringly intimidating.  He looks a lot like an older, sterner version of Marco, with a squarer jaw and a sharp nose.  The freckles splattering his cheeks are sparse, if not nonexistent, and his hair is somehow even shorter.  He’s missing a pinkie on his right hand, and his entire arm covered in the scars of terrible burns, right up until the point where his skin disappears under his sleeve.  Half of his face is covered in the same gnarled scars, an eyepatch giving him an even rougher look.  In his one eye is a cold brutality I’ve never seen on Marco – it’s harsher than his flat, chastising glare.  This man seems almost furious with me; mindlessly, shamelessly furious. 

Swallowing, I rip my eyes away.  A blush colors my cheeks.  “I’m sure you are, sir.  Are you… Marco’s…?”

“Brother.”  He tilts his head to one side, narrowing that eye like a hawk studying its prey.  “I’m Marco’s brother.  Wouldn’t surprise me if you’ve never heard of me – lil’ Marco probably doesn’t talk about me much, does he?”

Marco blushes, stammering, and glances at the ground. 

“You keep your business your business, cutie,” Gabriele sighs, ruffling Marco’s hair again, an emotionless half-smile yanking at his lips.  “Ain’t nothing wrong with that.  You just talk a lot about nothing.”

I stifle a giggle. 

“See?  Jean agrees with me.”  Gabriele’s one eye flashes towards me and, for half a second, I swear I see a flicker of emotion.  For the tiniest sliver of a moment, something different swims in the gaze of this brute of a man – something deep, something painful, something giving me the weirdest feeling like I should know this guy.  Like I _do_ know this guy. 

“So, um.”  I nod towards Erwin awkwardly.  “He _is_ your horse, then?  Never thought to ask who… who he…”

“Who he belonged to?”  Any lingering emotion vanishes, and, despite his words being kind, there’s not the slightest bit of inflection in his voice; it’s like hearing a robot.  “Work keeps me too busy to hang around much.  Marco says you keep him company well enough, though, so I should thank you.  …Recognize him?”

I blink a few times, frowning.  “Should I?”

Gabriele studies me carefully.  “Maybe not.  He was a famous jumper a few years back.  Well, more than a few.  Got messed up pretty bad, had to amputate him or kill him.  Breeder wanted one last foal out of the poor Commander, so he went with the first, but after that, it was the glue factory.  Commander was a pity-buy more than anything.  Got him real cheap for what he is.”

“I think he’s a good horse,” Marco praises, smiling cheerfully up at Erwin and patting the animal’s cheek, causing it to rumble in appreciation.  “I don’t know what you’d have done without this old fellow, to be honest, Gabriele.”

“Mmm.”  Gabriele lifts his scarred hand up to Erwin’s muzzle, and the horse leans forward, gently nibbling with soft lips at his knuckles.  “He’s a good horse.  Glad his leg ain’t giving him trouble.  Hanji had me worried, saying it was rusting up.  It’s perfectly fine, ain’t it, Marco?”

“Looks like,” Marco agrees, nodding.  “I’ve never noticed him having – oh!”  Blinking owlishly, he balks, staring at me sheepishly.  “Jean, I’m so sorry, you’ve got a job to do!  We’ve been keeping you, blathering on like we are… so sorry!  Do you need any help taking the ponies out to pasture, or…?”

Hastily, I shake my head, more than eager to take my leave.  “No, no, it should be –”

“Reiner is hiding in the tack room, ain’t he?”  One of Gabriele’s eyebrows quirk.  “Tell him to help you with the ponies or I’ll come kick his ass.”  A dry, emotionless smirk appears on his lips.  “It should work.  He seems to think I’m intimidating or something.”  His head tilts to one side, and grins a warm, Marco grin, a sparkle of life returning to his eyes.  To my absolute shock, he winks at me.  “Sweet little Marco’s terrifying pirate-bodyguard-brother, right?”

“Shuddup,” Marco mumbles, blushing profusely. 

“Right,” I agree, chuckling nervously, carefully gauging this guy’s reaction to me laughing technically at his little brother.  Thankfully, though, Gabriele’s smile grows wider, if only for a split second, before he reverts back to his stoic self. 

“Well, now, Marco, we’ve kept him long enough.  Pleasure to meet you at last, Jean.”

“And you, Gabriele.”  I attempt another little jibe at humor.  “Even if I’ve never heard of you before now.”

There it is again – that flicker of something immensely different in his eye.  This man at least knows me.  Judging from my own reaction to him, somewhere deep down, I know him too.

“Yes…”  His smile is flat, false, painted on his face without inflection.  “I’ll see you around, Jean.”

“Gabriele, stop,” Marco hisses.  “You’re being creepy.”

 

* * *

 

I lower myself slowly onto my ass beside a tense, wild-eyed Reiner.  The scent of polished leather and musty woodchips fills my nose, and I sigh, pressing my forehead to the palm of my hand. 

“You’re helping me take the ponies out to pasture, or else Marco’s scary-ass brother is going to come after you,” I murmur quietly, “but first, tell me about Marco’s scary-ass brother.”

“You can’t make me –“

“ _He_ threatened to make you,” I sigh.  “Spill about scary-pirate-man.”

Reiner shakes his head, scowling blackly.  “Dammit, I don’t wanna talk about him – I don’t want him to march in and tear my head off.”

“He won’t do that,” I scoff, shaking my head.  “Just tell me like the guy looks like someone just spat in his bean curd.”

“Well…”  Reiner hesitates.  “That sonuvabitch wasn’t always so menacing, I’ll tell you that.  I never really knew him that well.  He enlisted in the army when he was eighteen and I met him at twenty-four.  But Marco adores the man.”

“Those army wounds, then?”

“Yeah, something blew up, I don’t know – he came home a few years ago.”  He rakes a hand through his hair.  “Really weird time.  Apparently, he rebelled against the Bodt parents and planned to work in the army for all his life instead of taking up business.  Bodts refuse to believe he exists, Marco worships the ground he walks on.”

“Why does he act like that?”

“Like I said, didn’t I?  Wasn’t always a walking demon.  He went into personal protection after his injury since the army wouldn’t take him back and became a machine.  Marco said something about the fire of the explosion triggered traumatic memories.  Scarring, I bet.”  Reiner twirls a finger around his ear, nodding sagely. 

“Oh…”  I rub at my eye, groaning.  “That sucks.  Poor dude.”

Reiner growls, stamping his feet.  “Look, I don’t like him at all.  He was cool when I met him over Christmas breaks years ago.  That was neat.  But now?  He’s an asshole with an eyepatch that snaps if you look at him for too long.  Marco doesn’t get that.  Marco doesn’t understand that his brother ain’t a good guy.”

I stare intently at the dust spiraling slowly through a fragment of light streaming in through a window, watching their lazy dances and thinking.  “He doesn’t seem very friendly, yeah.  He a horseman?  That could be why Marco likes him.”

“Wha?”  Reiner waves a hand.  “Hell, he’s a great horseman, whenever he stops by.  Taught Marco to ride.  Used to teach at a different stable, too.”

“Can’t imagine him herding around little white bitches, can’t lie.”

“You don’t have to,” Reiner says.  “His scars don’t make that man a monster, but his attitude does.”

I hesitate.  “Maybe you two just got off on the wrong foot?  He seemed scary as hell, but not… that… bad.”

“No, trust me, this guy’s bad.”  Reiner frowns at me, seeming worried.  “Look, just because your crush likes a bad man doesn’t mean you have to.  I’m going to hightail my ass outta here as soon as I help you with these damn ponies, practicing be damned.  I don’t like sticking around that fucker any longer than necessary.”

“Then hiding in the tack room was a stupid move.”

“Irrelevant,” he dismisses.  “Look, two-tone, do what you want.  Just don’t drag me back to that guy.”

Sighing, I rake a hand through my hair, ignoring the pandering of my heart.  “Why do you hate him so much, Reiner?  Is there any real reason, or just superstitution?”

“He killed a woman, Jean.  Before the army and all of that shit.  Before he finished high school.”  Shaking his head slowly, Reiner ambles towards the door, lost in thought.  “I don’t know how.  It might’ve been an accident.  But looking into that eye… do you really think that anything would’ve been an accident?”

For that, I have no answer. 

 

* * *

 

Reiner wasn’t lying about Gabriele being an absurdly good horseman.  I didn’t think I’d ever see someone better than Marco on the back of a horse, never mind Polo, of all animals, but Gabriele works well with Marco’s loyal steed. 

It makes me wonder if they share a bond, too – after all, when he leans over the railing to the Sina pasture and cries out Marco’s name, Polo comes running jubilantly to the fence to greet him.  Usually, the freckled angel’s the only one that can pull that off.  I don’t ask Marco.  Actually, I hardly speak to him.  Our only sort of communication is glances from across the corrals and tense smiles passed through windows. 

I don’t like seeing Marco with Gabriele.  I don’t like seeing him smile like the grumpy old man is the cherry on top of his ice cream.  I don’t like seeing that little ray of sunshine anywhere near Gabriele, especially since it makes particular sense in my mind that the brute could very well be the one inflicting those terrible bruises up and down Marco’s face. 

Maybe it’s a touch of jealousy that leads me to avoid Marco all day.  Maybe I’m jealous that he adores his brother.  Maybe I’m jealous of the way Gabriele can connect so easily with what Marco loves. 

Whatever it is that drives me away from Marco, and, consequently, Gabriele, it keeps me from thinking that one of them might seek me out instead.  The thought never crosses my mind. 

So, of course, the man takes me utterly by surprise. 

He stands in the middle of Stable Maria, tall and still, brown gaze sparkling familiarly, but its sparkle isn’t for me.  His freckled cheeks are pulled back in a soft, lingering smile – the sort of smile one might reserve for moments when they think they’re alone, when no one can see them.  Fingers working expertly around Levi’s halter, he massages the little pony’s face – I watch in awe as Levi leans into each of his touches, whickering affectionately, nuzzling the palms of his hands.  A rumbling laugh echoes down the corridor, and Gabriele cups Levi’s face in two hands, pressing a soft kiss to the horse’s forehead. 

It’s painfully awkward, watching this tender moment between the scariest person I’ve met since my ninth-grade gym teacher and the evilest piece of shit ever to exist.  Somehow, it seems right, too.  Gabriele gently rubs at the hard-to-reach places, causing Levi to rumble with affection.  Levi nibbles at Gabriele’s eyepatch, inviting another kind laugh from the big man. 

The moment seems wholly too private for me to be peering in on them, but I can’t make myself move from the doorway – seeing Gabriele like this, I can finally see where Marco got his kind-eyed smile from, where he inherited that understanding with horses.  And it’s fascinating to me, to see that familial connection between the horsemen.  After all, this is the famous Devil Pony, crooning like a dove under the touch of those hands. 

 _If Levi is a poodle in front of Gabriele_ , I realize, a slight smirk coming to my lips, _then the dude’s a fucking horse magician._

“You don’t remember him, do you, Jean?” 

I almost jump out of my skin. 

Gabriele tosses me a nonchalant glance, piercing intelligence hidden behind the tenderness in that one eye. 

“Wh-what?” I stammer, regarding him sharply.  “What are you talking about?”

Rolling his eye in irritation, he waves me closer, seeming annoyed with my distance.  He watches me creep closer to him with a trained precision, his gaze following me without ever having to move his head.  It’s eerie and it makes me feel like a mouse under the gaze of a predator. 

Apparently deeming me near enough, he pats Levi on the nose.  “You don’t remember Levi, right?  Or… Devil Pony, was it?”

I feel my ears getting hot.  “That’s… just a silly nickname!  And… should I know this di – uh, horse?”

Gabriele turns his gaze away from me, that flicker returning to his eye, but this time, it seems less mysterious, more… sad.  Wistful, maybe.  “I had my suspicions, of course, when you didn’t recognize me.  Wouldn’t take a lot, I suppose.  You were… very young.  What, seven years old?”

My breath catches in my throat.  Rigidly, I stare at Gabriele, mouth agape.  Each breath is more difficult to force out than the last, shaking my body and hurting my throat.  His eye holds the Marco softness to it, and his twisted lips quiver.  Horror clings to the back of my throat, making it feel lumpy and gross. 

“I’m so sorry, Jean,” Gabriele sighs, leaning into Levi’s nose.  “If it’s any consolation, I went into the force for you and your sister.  Wanted to be someone for you two, and I’ve always wanted to talk to you about what happened, we never… we never talked after the funeral, I wanted to see how your family was doing, but…  And – and now you’ve gone and found my little Marco.”  Quickly, he wipes at a tear that’d traced down his cheek, astonishing me.  “But you don’t even recognize me anymore, do you?  Or Levi?”

“Are you…?”  A terrified quiver replaces the lock-limbed stillness, and an icy dread creeps into my stomach.  “No.”

_It can’t be him.  He was smiley and happy and giggly and had such a nice voice – melodic and soothing and – no.  I refuse to believe…_

“I’ve changed a lot, haven’t I?” Gabriele says almost like he’d read my mind.  He cocks an eyebrow, but it seems… sad.  “The accident messed up my vocal chords, blew off half my face.  Hardly seem like the goofy boy next door, do I?  Well, Jean, you’re different as well.  Marco seems to think you’re sexy.”

“How can you be here?” I croak out, blinking repeatedly.  _Shit, shit, shit, I can feel the bad memories welling up, readying themselves to overflow…_   “Why are you here?”

_Why are you here?  Why are you ruining this?  I don’t need this, I don’t need any of this… you can’t be Marco’s brother… I’m just getting warmed up to the horses again, I don’t need this memories…_

“Stay calm,” Gabriele soothes, holding out a hand to calm me.  “Hush.  Hush, now.  Stay calm.  Listen, Jean, I think you’re having a panic attack.  Focus… focus on me…”

Gasping for breath, I try my best to meet his gaze, but my eyes won’t stop skittering.  I don’t see him move, but, suddenly, his hands are on my biceps and he’s holding me firmly, keeping me grounded, but it’s not working, it’s not working.  I can feel myself…

 _“Lighten up, pretty boy!”_ a voice mocks on the edges of my memory, the vision becoming swiftly more vivid, more sensory, ever second clearer than the last – it flashes before my eyes as Gabriele attempts to calm me down. 

_“Hitch,” pleads a sweet male voice.  “We really shouldn’t be up here… do you know what a cliché place this’d be to die?  In a hay-barn because you had to take your smoke?”_

_“Cliché?” jeers another voice.  “Since when?”_

_“Since, like, Black Beauty,” he laughs nervously.  “Seriously, you guys paid no attention in English class, did you?”_

_I remember collapsing into a fit of coughing, tasting the bitter smoke in the air and feeling a broad hand gently clap me on the back.  Brown eyes had flashed sympathetically, and a strong arm had curled around my shoulders, shaking me affectionately._

_“Hitch, your brother’s getting tired.”  The boy had sounded irritated.  “You’re going to give him cancer with your disgusting second-handed smoking.  Put that down or I’m driving him home and explaining this to your mother.”_

_“What, that drunk-ass bitch?”  Hitch snorts.  “Go right ahead.  She hasn’t noticed anything since Dad started sleeping around.  Scat, Freckles.”_

_“Don’t call me that.”_

_I sneezed again, I think.  I remember the world pitching violently, and his hand growing softer on my shoulders._

_“We’re leaving, Hitch.”_

_“Have fun,” she snaps.  “Tell mummy I love her.”_

Gabriele shakes me slightly, his eye gleaming with concern, his lips parted worriedly.  Almost roughly, he tightens his hold on my arms, barking out a quick, “Jean!  Jean, focus… focus on me…  Look into my eye, got it?”

I try to stammer out a reply, but – but I just… I can’t.  I can’t manage to get anything out.  My throat feels tight, like it’s choking me, like there’s a noose – why… can’t I breathe?  Why can’t I breathe?

 _“Run!”  Rough hands shove me from behind, provoking another wheeze.  “Jean!  Get the_ fuck _out of here, I’m going back for your sister!”_

_Another shove sends me wheeling forward, but I can’t make myself move.  Just as I’m frozen now, I’m frozen then, the terror incapacitating me, my ability to think, my ability to do anything but watch.  The flames dance from stall to stall, their crackling cacophony pierced by the terrified cries of horses.  My legs freeze and I stare up at one of the beasts as it twists and writhes and brays, its fur, like all of them, turned black by the vivid shadows of the darkness and stunning orange._

_Something in me kickstarts when the fire begins to enclose around the entrance to the stable, the only one.  I lurch forward before my brain’s behind my feet, stumbling clumsily towards the exit.  The fire kisses me skin, luring me closer with melodic dances and bright colors.  Coughing up smoke, I stagger out of the stable, blinking tears from my eyes._

_Only one horse is tethered to a fence.  It’s struggling against a tie to the side of the barn, whinnying fearfully, kicking out two pairs of hooves.  Its golden coat seems somehow different than the sweat-soaked black of those inside._

_I don’t remember making the conscious decision to release it.  Next thing I remember, the horse is yanking its lead line from my hands.  It burns my palms, and I yelp, dropping it and allowing the stallion to stampede off._

_Without a second of hesitation, I dash after it.  The fire still laps at my back as I race off, stumbling all the way, but the slap of cool air soothes my cheeks.  I blink the ash from my eyes and pull to a halt the moment I can no longer feel the fire’s heat._

_Frightened, I pivot, turning back to watch the stable dissolve into flames._

_The fire’s claimed the wood.  It laps ferociously at the barn, trailing upwards with mighty paws that bat and claw towards the sky.  Horses rear and whinny in terror at the crackling and hissing monster, and I release a squeak of terror as something inside collapses with a horrible groan.  Sparks like little fairies whip upwards before fading like stars gone out._

_A horse explodes from the gaping maw of a doorway, thundering out wildly.  The creature bolts like any sane animal would, darting off into the darkness until I can’t see it any longer._

_Another figure bursts through the flaming doorway, but she’s more different, somehow.  More humanoid.  It only takes a second to recognize the bobbing of her short hair._

_“Hitch!” I scream with lungs seared by the smoke.  The heat of a tear slips down my blistering cheek.  “Hitch!”_

_She claps her eyes on me – I can tell she sees me, because she alters her course ever so slightly, centering more on me.  Her hair swings around her ears.  Her running strides are slightly uneven, but that’s okay, given what she’d been smoking.  Even in the darkness of the night, even against the fire’s gleam, I can make out her wet eyes and relieved grin as she sprints towards me._

_A horse thunders again from the stable.  It goes nowhere near Hitch as it prances off, tossing its head in confusion._

_The second one is closer.  Hitch flinches as it streaks past, but it zigzags harmlessly back and forth, its tail being eaten by fire as it runs._

_But the third horse seems on a path straight towards her._

I don’t want to see this.  I don’t want to see this monster again, its great hooves pounding viciously against the sand, tossing up clouds against the fire.  I don’t want to see the flash of its ebony mane, hear its shrill cry as its eyes roll like a demon’s. 

_But I can only watch, helpless, as Hitch stumbles in surprise, unknowingly spooking the bolting horse.  She throws out her arms to steady herself, to keep herself from falling, and turns to face the beast, her skin glinting with sweat.  The horse throws up a cloud of dirt as it skids to a halt; the dust is so thick, it almost impairs my vision of Hitch._

_Behind them, the stable groans, and a poster-beam collapses, sending part of the roof hurtling down upon those unfortunately caught in the blaze with a crash and equine shrieks of agony, spooking the horse._

_I can do nothing.  I can do nothing but watch._

_Releasing what almost seems to be a roar, the animal rears up, onto its hind hooves.  Its head arches through the air, tossed up and down.  Legs pumping with muscles flair out through the air.  Hitch throws up her arms and flinches away._

_She can’t move fast enough._

_Hitch falls backwards with a horrifyingly hollow_ clunk. 

_The horse lands back on all fours, kicks her unmoving body one last time for a good measure, and streaks off as two more race from the flames._

_I merely stare, shocked, at my sister lying on the ground, sprawled at an unnatural angle.  I don’t feel sad or angry or even scared of the other horses – that’ll all come later.  Slowly, slowly, I fall to my knees, but I don’t walk over to her, don’t wrap my arms around her to feel the last warmth creep form her body._

“Breathe, Jean,” Gabriele commands, shaking me roughly, his one eye hardened with concern.  He seeks my gaze out sharply, that one eye demanding my attention.  I stare up at him, panicking quietly, swallowing down the memories that keep coughing up. 

_Dammit, dammit, dammit…_

Feebly, I reach forward and grab at his T-shirt, seeking some sort of human comfort as I feel myself sucked backwards.  He claps a hand around my wrist, and, somehow, that works.  I suppose he is still Marco’s brother – it’s possible for him to have a kind streak, too, I suppose. 

_The lights on another police car flash as it rolls up, joining the myriad of squeaky clean automobiles splayed around beside the firetruck.  Had they been here on any other occasion, I’m sure I would’ve been delighted.  Now, I feel sunken, numb, watching without feeling anything, despite the blanket and arms around me._

_“…Please, sir,” someone is begging, the same someone with his arms draped over my shoulders, “he’s been through so much tonight… he’s only seven.  He needs to go back to his mother.”_

_The police officer in front of us hesitates, fiddling nervously with his pen.  He glances flittingly towards me but finds himself unable to meet my unblinking, empty stare, meeting the man’s eyes instead.  “I don’t know… if it was up to me…”_

_“Please, let me get him home,” the man all but begs, sounding tired and strained.  “You already know what’s… happened.  I’ll come straight back if you want.  He lives just across the street.  I’ll be back in no time.  Or let me call his mother…”_

_“We called his mother an hour ago and broke the news to her,” the officer grunts.  “Haven’t heard back from her since.  Hasn’t answered any of our calls.”_

_The man chokes.  “You told her over the phone?” he yelps, his tone a mix of fury and shock.  “Oh, god – sir, we really need to get home, she’s… probably not in good condition.  Please.”_

_Sighing, the officer rubs at his eyes, taking one last measured look at the man before shaking his head.  “Okay, kid.  We already know what’s happened, we just haven’t got the official word yet, which is really just a bunch of bullshit, so you’re free to go.  Don’t bother coming back here.  Go home and do calm yourself down, and wait for the official phonecall.  Take this poor chap home.”_

_“Yes, sir.”  The man’s arms tighten around my shoulders, and he releases a breathy sigh of relief in my ear, leaning down beside me.  “Hear that, Jean?  We’re going home.  You’re going home.  C’mere, kiddo.”  He wraps his arms around my torso, pulling me in for a huge hug.  “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry.  C’mon.  Let’s go home.”_

“Jean.”  Gabriele practically snarls, tightening his grip to the extend that it hurts to get me to focus.  His unwavering glare in any other situation would’ve been deeply unnerving, with the cold, unbreachable ice.  “Focus on me.  Focus on breathing.  Breathe.”

I try to answer him, to scream at him how I could possibly do that, but all that escapes is a hollow, choked sound. 

Gabriele removes his hand from around my wrist, instead placing it on my chest.  At first, I’m confused by it, mistaking it as an intimate gesture.  Then, using my shoulder as leverage, he starts trying to control my breathing, forcing my lungs to work at a slower pace. 

It doesn’t work. 

In the background, Levi throws up his little pony head and whinnies, kicking at his stall door as if he wants to knock it down. 

_My feet echo up the big, wooden stairs slowly.  It feels like my shoes are made of lead.  My eyes itch with dried tears, eyelids lolling lower and lower with each step until I’m practically leaning against the man I now recognize as a young, panicked Gabriele.  He’s gentle with me, holding me up and flashing fond glances my direction._

_“Holding on there, buddy?” Gabriele asks softly, ruffling my hair.  I nod numbly in response.  With a hollow smile, Gabriele turns his attention to the door, and rings the bell expectantly.  He sucks in a great gasp, staring nervously at his feet and growing very, very pale._

_No one answers the door._

_I look to Gabriele expectantly.  He shrugs, biting at his lip, and tries knocking at the door._

_“I dunno, Jean,” he sighs after a few more long moments of silence.  “The lights are on… hold up a sec, and let me figure this out, okay?  Do you know where there might be a spare key?”_

_Shaking my head, I look pointedly towards the lock.  We almost never locked the damn thing, no matter the danger of it, so it didn’t really ever cross our minds to put out a key.  Most of the time, it’s unlocked, anyway.  Actually, it might be unlocked now._

_As Gabriele leans down to check under the doormat, hissing curses under his breath, I reach forward and try the doorknob.  It moves easily in my hand.  Scowling, I turn to Gabriele and rap him firmly on the back of my hand with my knuckles.  He swears and bolts to his feet, but blushes once he realizes his error._

_“Oh, sorry, right, I’m an idiot.”  Gabriele squeezes my shoulder, laughing nervously.  “Look, Jean… I don’t know what we’re going to find in there, okay?”  His hand braces on the knob.  “Just… be prepared.”_

_I nod in confirmation, risking a dry smile, but I’m not prepared.  Neither of us are.  How could we be prepared?  How could anyone be prepared for yet another bloody mess?_

_But that’s exactly what we find._

_Gabriele doesn’t notice her at first.  He doesn’t see the moonlight gleaming in the pools of blood like mirrors, doesn’t catch sight of the dull gleam of wet hair and dead eyes.  Terrible, terrible, lifeless eyes.  The man’s fingers reach out, groping at the wall, until they fumble their way around a light-switch and illuminate the scene before us._

_Slivers of red run across her wrists.  Somehow, the blood had gotten into her hair, matting it in tangled clumps as it dries.  Her mouth hangs dumbly open, her eyes wide and unseeing._

_Gabriele fucking squeaks and jumps away, stumbling and hitting his back against the doorway with a resounding crack._

_“Ma!” I screech, throwing myself forward.  Gabriele catches me at the last minute, his hand closing around my shoulder.  I try to shrug him off, but his grip only tightens.  “Ma!”_

_“No, no, no, shit, no,” Gabriele stammers, dragging me persistently backwards.  “Fuck.  Fuck.  Jean, Jean, come with me, come with me…”_

_“Ma!” I shriek like a little devil, writhing around, putting all my weight into trying to get to her.  “Ma!  MA!”_

_Gabriele picks me up roughly with one arm, all but pinning me against him, and whips out a cell phone.  I scream and wail and cry out for my mom, but he keeps walking away, leaving the door open and the lights on.  Tears I thought I’d been dry of flow.  Screaming in frustration, I slam my fists against his neck, but it doesn’t even seem to affect Gabriele._

_My stomach is a mosh pit of emotions: forlorn, angry, terrified, sad, unbelieving, scared, small, lonely.  As Gabriele lugs me closer and closer to his car, my shrieks of protest devolve into sniffling sobs.  Instead of slamming my fists against his neck, I wrap my arms around him, nuzzling against his hair and letting my tears wet the back of his shirt.  It doesn’t matter to me that I’ve just met him.  It doesn’t matter that he was the one that released the horses in the first place.  Gabriele is there, and therefore, I seek his comfort._

_Just like now, really._

_And also just like now, Gabriele comforts me back – the one arm securing my body in the air crushes me, and he presses a soft kiss to my temple between words._

_“No, sir, I’m not doing that!” I hear him snap.  “Look, we’ll be right down the street.  This boy cannot handle any more – no!  Did I say it was up for debate?  No, I fucking did not!  If you want to interrogate him and give him more of a shit-night, then you’ll know where to find us!  Goodnight, officer!”_

“Okay, that’s not working,” Gabriele breathes, sounding only the slightest bit worried.  “What – oh, I know.”  Gently, he tugs me forward, and I follow blindly, completely limp and obedient, as he tugs me to the stall door.  “God, I hope this works…”

_“Hush, Jean,” he soothes.  “It’s alright.  You’re okay.  We’re safe now.  Shh, shh, shh.  It’s okay.  He’s not going to hurt you.”_

_“I don’t want to be anywhere near him!” I sob, burrowing into Gabriele’s chest, pushing backwards, legs locked adamantly.  “I hate horses!  I hate them!”_

_“Jean…”  Gabriele’s hand runs through my hair.  “What are you talking about?  You love horses.”  His voice suddenly catches in his throat, as if just now realizing that my adoration of them might’ve been slightly damaged after the events of that night.  “Anyway, he’s not a horse.  He’s a pony.”_

_“No!” I moan, as he shoves me gently towards the stall, turning me around.  Stubbornly, I bury my head in my own shoulder, refusing to look at the animal.  “A pony is just a little horse!”_

_He laughs quietly and guides my wrist.  “Those are called miniature horses, Jean.  He’s a Shetland pony.  That means his ancestors were raised where it was very, very cold, so he’s got a thick, fluffy coat.  You want to feel it?”_

_I release a long, anguished wail._

_Gabriele sighs.  “Just… let him smell you.  Then see what you think.”_

_Nervous, I let him gently guide my arm until the palm of my hand brushes a soft, velvety muzzle.  I flinch backwards, invoking a questioning whicker from the horse.  Keeping my face buried in my shoulder, my heart throbbing with curiosity and deep-seated fear, I reach out again, seeking the pony’s warmth out again._

“Levi,” I manage through a dry, strangled throat.  He whickers softly, shoving his nose against my fingers and shaking his head from side to side.  Those grey eyes still seem intense and dangerous, but no longer… livid.  Maybe my perspective on them has changed.  Maybe he’s actually feeling something other than hate towards me.  Whatever. 

“Yes, Levi,” Gabriele laughs, sounding relieved.  He exhales loudly, releasing my arm and allowing me to take control of my fingers.  “That’s it.  _That’s it._ Breathe.”

I make a conscious effort to force my lungs open.  Gaping like a fish, I let sweet oxygen wash through me, and, let me tell you, you don’t know how good something is until it’s gone, because it feels _really fucking great to be breathing._ With a sigh, I lean towards Levi, cupping his little head in my hands and wheezing like a goddamn idiot.

“Levi calms you down, doesn’t he?”  Gabriele puffs out another sigh of relief.  “Thank God.  Thought I was going to have to explain to Marco how exactly I inadvertently murdered his boyfriend.”

I don’t say anything but look up at him with wide, questioning eyes. 

Throwing back his head, Gabriele laughs breathily. “You are in no way stealthy, boy.  You’re lucky you were a cute kid – most of the time, when Marco’s got a lover, I scare the living shit out of them.”

Mumbling something so jumbled my high school English teachers would impale me on the spot about how he still managed to do that, I turn my attention back to Levi, massaging my fingers beneath his halter and cupping his little ears. 

“You don’t know frightening, Jean,” Gabriele chuckles coarsely, running his bad hand through his hair.  He seems to notice the difficulty I have swallowing, and his voice dips into its softer range again.  “You _were_ a cute kid, I’ll have you know.  You remember the first time I sat you up on a horse?”

I shake my head numbly.  I try to clear my throat, but it doesn’t work – a dry, hairy lump sits deep down, making my words incoherent at best.  “I try… to forget.”

“Oh.”  He nods several times, face unreadable.  “Oh.  Okay.  I don’t blame you, son.  If I could, I’d try to as well.”

“I didn’t mean –”  With a sigh, I backtrack further.  “I… I’m afraid of horses now.  I can only… do ponies.”

“Your dad told me that on the day of the funeral,” Gabriele says slowly.  “And Marco told me after your reunion with Erwin – the horse you untied from the stable, remember?”  He wastes no time sating my questions, cutting them off before they even leave my mouth.  “Have to say… I didn’t believe that it could possibly be you, at first.  When I heard Marco talking about you.”

I furrow my brow, glancing at him quizzically.  “…What?”

“You know how Marco gets when he’s happy – he won’t shut up.”  Gabriele shrugs.  “Not that I mind.  But when he talked about the hot new stablehand and I heard your name tumble out of his mouth… my only thought was that there was no way in hell.”

“I didn’t know…” I whisper, staring down at Levi.  “…How…?  How are you even… and Levi…”

Gabriele shrugs answerlessly.  “Fate is a bitch, but… is meeting with Levi again really so bad?”

In that moment, I come across the strange realization that Gabriele has that same calming effect I get from Marco, even if he still scares me a little bit.  “No.  He’s… a Devil-Pony bastard, but… not that bad.”

“Marco said you don’t get along with him so well.”  He watches me scratch beneath his cheeks, scratching between the dishes of his face.  “Looks to me like you’re getting along fine.  I have to ask, though: if you’re as petrified as he said you were of horses, why’d you pick up a job at a stable?  I suppose _I_ just ripped the stitching from your wound right there, but… weren’t you afraid that’d happen just by being here?”

I stare at him listlessly.  “How much did Marco tell you?”

“A whole lot.  He wouldn’t stop talking about you.  Apparently, you look fucking sexy in your uniform.”  He chuckles at my expression, but whether it’s from the schoolgirl blush or the faint pleased smile, I’m not sure.  “Don’t avoid the question, though.  Why’d you get a job here?”

Contrary to my better judgment, I tell him the truth.  “I’m, like, infamous in Richmond for being a shit-worker.  You wouldn’t think it’d be possible, but it’s not that big a city, I guess.  I needed a good job that I could work around my classes.  Plus… being afraid of horses is a lame-ass fear.”

“Not under your circumstances.”  Shaking his head, he muses quietly, “I never thought that my little boy’d have a thing for assholes with piercings and ridiculous hair.”

“What?” I protest, raking a hand selfconsciously through my undercut.  The unhumored-parent glare he shoots me reminds me of that time I took Ilse to prom and had her father stare daggers at me for a good fifteen minutes as she touched up her makeup and shit. 

“Yes, ridiculous hair.”  Gabriele rolls his eye.  “Then again, you must have some redeeming quality.  You’re not adorable anymore – well, Marco seems to think you are, but you’re not.  Marco is an idiot.”

I bristle at his words, a hot lump of anger swelling in my stomach.  Meeting his glare with one of my own, I hiss in my best dangerously quiet tone, “Marco is _not_ an idiot.”

Gabriele hesitates for a moment, judging my reaction.  That one brown eye roves over my face, searching for some sign of – insincerity, I guess?  Weakness?  Like a wolf sniffing out fear, almost.  His chilling ability to detach himself so simply sends a tingle of fear down my spine, even now, knowing who he is.  A trained killer, that’s what this man is. 

Finally, he breaks out in a wry half-smile.  “You’re very right, Jean.  He’s not.” 

I study him, hoping to crack through his stony, impassive mask, yet unable to do anything.  Try as I might, I can’t dismiss the feeling that I’ve passed a sort of test in his book – nor can I dismiss the smugness the thought brings to my heart. 

_Suck on that, soldier boy._

“So.”  He relaxes again, face returning to the neutral-indifferent instead of the hostile-indifferent, as if there’s any sort of difference.  “Strange, though, that you should come here… have a huge-ass crush on my brother… almost surreal.  How is your family doing?

“Huh?”  My throat tightens again.  “Oh, they’re okay, I guess.  I don’t see my dad very often anymore.  He’s usually busy entertaining my stepmom and step-triplets.  I mean, it’s not like we’re on bad terms or anything, he’s just always… busy.”

Gabriele studies me in the corner of his eye with an expression that says he’s buying none of my bullshit.  “Good that you’re not on bad terms with him,” he lilts in a light tone that’s almost close to sarcasm.  “So you’ve been working with the ponies, then?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Every think about working with bigger game?”

“No.” 

“It might help you recover.”

“I said no.”

Sensing my discomfort a touch too late, Gabriele pauses.  His dark brown eye gleams with something indiscernable, but he says nothing more.  The gnarled corner of his lips really gives him a tough, condescending edge, even without his arms crossed sternly over his chest or his brow slowly sinking lower and lower with disapproval. 

Finally, I sigh, turning to look at him over my shoulder.  “…You’re not going to tell Marco, are you?”

He softens visibly – I’ve seen that look in Marco’s eyes before, right as he scooped me up in a massive hug.  Instead of an embrace, however, he cuffs my shoulder with a weird element of gentleness.  “Yes, Jean,” he says quietly, “I’m going to tell Marco.  He needs to know.  And you’re not going to tell him yourself, are you?”

“No,” I murmur meekly, wanting nothing more than to melt into a puddle and not have to worry about any more of this shit.  “I mean… I don’t want you to… but he… he needs…”

“You need to hear the truth about him, too,” Gabriele says gently.  “Do you know why he gets those bruises, Jean?”

Oh, shit.  That got my attention.  My head snaps up, my gaze meeting his one level eye.  Perhaps it’s pathetic, the flutter of excited hope in my chest – actually, it _probably_ is – but if anyone can provide me with answers, it’s Gabriele.  My accusations of him as the culprit to Marco’s bruises don’t make a lick of sense anymore, seeing how much he adores his baby brother, but hell, do I want to beat the shit out of the one that is leaving those marks on my freckled angel. 

He doesn’t really wait for a response, and I guess he doesn’t really need one, with me jerking up like I’d been shocked.  Leaning against the stall door beside me, he begins to talk in a low voice, like he’s afraid of being overheard. 

“You’re going to judge him and me for not reporting this to the police before now,” Gabriele murmurs.  The look in his eye hardens as he thinks back to what must be damn unpleasant memories.  “Truth is, we can’t.  Not because our dad’s shitty new wife is a lawyer that would completely be against us at every turn, but because… because of Ally.”  His eye flickers with emotion.  “You’ve met her, haven’t you?”

“Cute little girl in a wheelchair?”  I nod a few times.  “Yup.”

He smiles impassively.  “That one, yes.  She’s… she’s got a very strong spirit, and she’s a lovely girl, but she has no defense.  Truth be told… the abuse has been in our family since I was just a kid.  Right after our mom died in childbirth with Marco.  _I_ thought we were lucky to have him, and he was my little boy, he…”  Gabriele glances fondly out a window towards Marco.  “He filled the gap left behind from our mother.  But…”

The dark, steely glare is so different from the delicate flicker of tenderness, it’s hard to understand that it’s from the same man. 

“Our father wasn’t as thankful of his pretty-ass trophy wife being taken from him.” 

A sick feeling wrenches in my gut, and, already, I get a sense of where this story is headed. 

“So, he drank away his problems.”  Gabriele heaves a huge, irritated sigh, grouchily glaring over my shoulder.  “As they always do.  Little-me was subject to his abuse for slightly under a decade, but I endured it in silence.  You know why?” 

“Obviously not,” I answer callously, before my eyes widen and I take a half-step back in terror.  “Wait, uh – I take it back –”

“I’m not going to bite,” Gabriele scoffs, “and it was a stupid question, anyway.  It was because when he went into a drinking spiel one night when I wasn’t home, at a friend’s house for the night, he took it out on a five-year-old Marco.  That… it _terrified_ me.  I didn’t want him touching my Marco.  I was so scared that he might accidentally kill my baby boy.”

“Oh, fuck no,” I murmur, rubbing my palm against my eye until I see shapes.  “I see where this is going.”

Gabriele’s lips quirk.  “Thought you would.  You were always a clever boy.  Anyway.  That continued the way it did for the longest time.  Eventually, Daddy Dearest and I had a falling out, and – well, I was shipped off to a military school for my senior year.  Don’t think he counted on me enrolling in the army.”

“But what about Marco?” I protest. 

He shrugs helplessly.  “I didn’t count on him lying about our father’s abusiveness in his letters.  I thought everything was fine at home.  Hell, we don’t even fucking got proof of it in the goddamned letters, that’s how screwed we’d be in a case of law.  But the plan was for him to get the fuck out of there as soon as he hit a legal age.  I put aside some money for him to help with apartment fees, and he was saving, too.  Everything was going to work out fine, but… along came our stepmom.  And through her, Ally.

“Don’t get me wrong, I _love_ Ally.  She is… she’s the best stepsister someone could ever ask for.  Her heart’s a lot more like Marco’s than it is like mine – golden child, sweet as can be.  But… her health.”  Almost subconsciously, he traces the scars on his bad hand with his opposite fingers.  “Marco panicked when he hit eighteen.  He told me he could never leave her.  He said he wouldn’t let her go through that.  I found out that he’d been getting abused, too, all that time, and… he hasn’t left.  Not even now.  He can’t.”

“If he leaves,” I realize in a hoarse voice that hardly resembles mine, “your dad will turn on Ally.”

“And she can’t stand up against him.”  His tracing grows quicker, his fingertips moving fluidly up and down his hand, like an agitated habit.  “Her bone density, it’s frighteningly low – she’s been on Osteoporosis medicine a few times.  It’s why she’s in a wheelchair now, actually.  Marco’s… so scared for her.”

“Why doesn’t he just…?”  Frustrated, I wave my hands around.  “I don’t know, tell somebody?  Get help?  I mean, I get that it’s bad, but… honestly, if he’s afraid for her…”

“Because our father’s company is failing.”  Gabriele cocks his head.  “Even if it weren’t, the money we’d get from court cases wouldn’t be enough to sustain Ally for long.  Not with her disease.  She cracks a bone whenever she trips while walking to the bus stop, for fuck’s sake.  We can’t pay for that.”

“But you could leech some huge money from your father!” I insist.  “And you could get financial aid from the government!  Fuck, there’s a whole world of opportunities out there –”

“I’m aware, Jean,” he says frostily.  “But if we attempt to get financial aid from the government like you’re saying, who’s to say she won’t get taken away from Marco?  You’ve seen them together, what, once?  You don’t know how special she is to him.  No fucking way.”

“But –”

“It’s not up for debate, Jean,” Gabriele says adamantly.  Slowly, his expression grows more and more icy, becoming slightly more dangerous with every word that ever-so-patiently escapes his lips.  “More than anything, this is _Marco’s_ decision.  _We’re_ not here to make it for him.  And if you expect me to do that, or, heaven forbid, _you_ expect to do that _yourself_ , then I want you off this property now.”

My mouth falls open, and the fingers that’d been delicately cupping Levi’s muzzle freeze in place.  His one eye is unwavering and wide, unblinking, absolutely terrifying in every aspect – the pupil doesn’t dance about like others do, remaining unnaturally, eerily still.  Any smidgen of confidence I’d gained from his laid-back personality is blown away by that _glare_ , that fucking awful _glare_ that he could probably use to conquer the world. 

I stomach a whimper, looking down at my shoes, swallowing thickly.  For some reason, I feel like I’ve failed a test, and that I’m going to be sent to a slaughterhouse by this demon. 

Really, I’m seeing tons of similarities between this guy and Levi.  At least the pony has the grace to nose at me in irritation, moving my hands for me over his face. 

“That was harsh,” Gabriele says eventually, his unreadable voice scaring the shit out of me – I’d just naturally assumed he was going to keep glowering at me until the world turned to dust around us.  “I’m just… very protective of Marco.  Be very careful.  Tread lightly.  I don’t want to think of what our father might do to him if he found out about Marco’s… preferences.”

“Thanks for telling me what was really going on,” I mutter, risking a quick glance towards him before focusing again on Levi, the attention-whore.  “I’m sorry if I probed too deep.  I… I worry about Marco.  I know I probably ain’t got no fucking right to, but I do.  Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, I was the one that fucked up by glaring scary at ya, sending ya running with your tails between your knees.”  He claps me on the shoulder, a bitter smile touching his lips.  “You make me nervous, but I actually quite like you, Jean, you and your ridiculous hair.  You make my Marco smile.  I like that.”

Pathetically, I blush.  “I like that, too, actually.  Sorry, um.  Sorry about everything.  Your stepmom sounds like a bitch.”

“She is,” Gabriele says lightly.  “I’m sorry for everything that happened to you on my watch.  I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.  It was an accident, believe it or not, and your girlfriend – my sister – more or less brought it on herself.”  I wave a hand, shooing him off.  “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve actually got… stablehand shit to do.” 

The unpleasant knot clenches tightly in my stomach.  I keep my gaze locked on Levi’s spout of hair, hoping that he’ll be able to tell that I just need some time to myself. 

Not to break down or anything. 

Not to sob myself silly in this stupid little pony’s mane. 

Nothing like that. 

Don’t be ridiculous. 

Thankfully, Gabriele seems to understand; he’s probably had his fair share of bad moments, what with all those years in the military and then whatever accident entailed losing an eye.  He claps me on the shoulder again, giving me a tight squeeze, and begins to walk away.  His gait has a sense of sadness, reluctance, but also, a lot of understanding – yeah, he’s been in my shoes before. 

Almost as an afterthought, Gabriele tosses his head over his shoulder and adds, “Marco will be all over you the moment he finds out about this.  He probably won’t even let me finish explaining.  I don’t know how much time I can buy you.”

I pull at Levi’s halter anxiously.  “Can’t you just wait?”

“An unpleasant-looking freckled girl walked through the doorway while you were… busy.  She left almost immediately, but don’t think she won’t have reported it to Marco.”  He pauses, clearing his throat.  “I will stall him… as much as I can.”

I nod.  “T’anks,” I mumble, my voice cracking embarrassingly.  I wipe at my nose, not wanting Gabriele to see anything.  Thankfully, with one last pat on my back, he ambles quickly out. 

His footsteps thump heavily down the lane, quick and abnormally _loud_ against the sawdust.  A warrior he may be, but a pixie he is _not_.  I don’t turn from Levi to watch him go, don’t dare to tear my gaze from the little horse’s grey eyes.  As this footsteps round the corner, hesitating for a half-step before disappearing entirely, I unlatch Levi’s stall and slip inside. 

In a normal situation, sitting on the floor of a horse’s stall would leave me smelling like shit or trampled, but Levi both keeps his living areas strangely immaculate and is utterly harmless in this moment.  Groaning softly, I sink down onto my rump, staring dumbly at the chipped wooden wall separating Levi from Farlan in the stall nextdoor.  

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…_

I bury my head in my hands, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes, gritting my teeth.  Against my will, my lungs convulse with sobs, jolting my entire body with each one.  I gasp for air between the cruel rips, and it isn’t until Levi’s muzzle gently brushes against my cheek that I realize that tears course down them, thick and hot. 

Acting on impulse, I reach up and throw my arms around the little pony’s neck.  Levi snorts, alarmed, but doesn’t move, standing rock steady and nibbling at my hair gently.  I don’t know why he’s changed, but god, I’m thankful for it. 

I choke and rasp disgustingly against the horse, his mane sticking to the moisture on my cheeks.  The lump in my throat isn’t just annoying anymore – I can barely breath, each gasp sending another spasm through my lungs.  A heat buried deep in my gut from long ago exhumes itself, a small kernel of hate and sorrow and fear that I’ve kept locked away for… how many years now? 

Too many. 

Way, way too many years. 

I barely clamp down on a small, half-scream of resentment in time; panting like a dog, I bury my face into Levi’s neck, feeling his short, stubbly fur scratch against my skin yet not caring enough to find more comfort.  Trembling like a leaf, my body refuses to obey me – I want to stand up, I want to walk away, shove it down again, but… 

I can’t.  I can’t.  I am completely helpless with my confusion. 

A shiver runs down my spine, and I gasp, tightening my arms around Levi. 

I can only brave the storm. 

 _I think – I think you just made an amateur mistake with grief._ Mid-inhale, I freeze, my shaking fingers suddenly still, letting my memories of Marco’s sweet, sweet voice overpower those of that god-awful night.  _Tell me Jean, did you let yourself grieve properly?_

No, Marco.  No, I didn’t.  Slowly, lulled by reminisces of Marco’s voice, I force my breathing to steady.  I can’t do anything about the tears, I can’t do anything about the sobs, but I need to breathe.  The memories of his soft tones lap gently at me, gradually chipping away my terror and sorrow and hate, his voice carrying gentle reminders that I need to grieve. 

_Trust me when I say this stuff only gets worse if you allow it to accumulate, the self-blame, the depression – you lose yourself.  And you’re too amazing a person to lose._

Levi whickers softly, nuzzling against the back of my neck.  Leaning into his touch, I release a heavy sigh from my sore, burning lungs. 

_So many people would be hurt if you lost yourself, Jean._

My fingers knot tighter into Levi’s mane, practically ripping it from his back.  I breathe in slowly, cursing and reveling in the tremor of my lungs in the same moment. 

_Krista’d hurt.  Ymir’d hurt.  Connie.  Sasha._

The sound of the stall door being thrown open clinks in the corner of my hearing, and instinctively, I clutch Levi tighter.  A spur of fear kicks my beating heart into motion, and, all at once, the panic returns.  I can’t let them see me like this, I can’t, I need to grieve, but I can’t –

_I’d hurt._

He says nothing as he wraps his arms around my shoulders, but I’d know the hands that gently curl around my torso anywhere.  With a musty smell and tiny rustling, the bedding shifts beside me to accommodate the weight of the man crouching beside me.  I go rigid as board, all but strangling poor Levi, yet strangely wanting to sink into those comforting arms.  Marco squeezes me gently, pressing his warm body up against mine and leaning his head on my shoulder. 

I tense up further, expecting a question.  My breathing accelerates, turning again into frightened panting, like a dog left in midsummer heat.  Overwhelmed with panic, I try weakly to shrug him off, to be alone once more. 

But Marco, perfect, patient Marco, doesn’t let me go.  He strokes my hair gingerly and rocks me side to side, humming a swooping melody that sounds a little bit too much like something off of a Taylor Swift album.  Tingles cascade down my back as, every now and then, he’ll shift and the tip of his nose will graze the back of my neck – my brain nearly short-circuits when what feels like his lips brush my hair for just a mere second. 

He doesn’t say much of anything.  He just holds me. 

_I love you, Marco Bodt._

Slowly, slowly, like a flower’s petals peeling back into a full blossom,  I relax.  The muscles I’d clenched, vainly hoping to deter this freckled saint, slowly unwind and release their tension.  My arms slip from around Levi’s neck, falling limply to my sides.  Instead of leaning away from Marco’s embrace, I lean towards it, relying perhaps too heavily on his strong arms around me. 

Marco accepts me easily into his embrace, rocking me slowly from side to side, petting at my hair.  Once, Ymir sticks her head over the edge of the stall door, and he hisses out threats until she leaves, then coaxes me from the shell I’d returned too. 

When at last he does speak, it’s nothing hostile, nothing demanding.  He doesn’t ask me anything, doesn’t try to compare his problems to mine.  It’s so refreshing.  So utterly refreshing. 

_I love you, Marco Bodt._

“You’re not strong, Jean,” he says in a tone that’s sweet and sincere and beautiful.  “That’s why you can understand how the weak feel.  How I feel.  And it’s okay.  It’s okay to break down every now and then.  It’s healthy.”

Numbly, I shake my head.  “Nuh-uh.”

“No one can be strong forever,” Marco says wisely.  “We’re all weak, really.  We all have problems and doubts and fears.  The way I see it, we can either bottle them up and let them corrode us from the inside out or let someone we trust hear about them and keep us strong.”

“Do you trust me?” I ask quietly. 

“Huh?”  His arms freeze around me.  “Uh, what do you mean?”

“You told me once that in order to get a horse to trust you, you had to trust it first.”  I shoot him a glance that’s maybe a bit too pointed.  “So do you trust me?”

I hold my breath, watching him blink as he tries to process the information he’d been fed.  Without even realizing it, I’d just thrown a question at him that I’m not even sure I want to know the answer to.  God, I want him to trust me.  So badly.  But… his brother had made the decision to tell me about his troubles, not him, so if he doesn’t… I’d rather know now. 

At last, Marco looks away, his face turning a lovely shade of pink.  Quietly, he asks, “Is this about what Gabriele told you?  It is, isn’t it?”

Silently, I nod and wait anxiously for an answer. 

“I was going to tell you anyway, Jean,” Marco says, refusing to meet my eyes, his cheeks reddening slightly more.  “I – I told him that, so I suppose… it gave him the all-clear.  I was going to invite you for another expedition for coffee at the Peppered Potato or wherever else you might want, and… tell you.  I’m sorry if…”

“It’s alright.”  The shade of scarlet his cheeks turn is absolutely adorable when my hand finds his and I lace our fingers together.  I try to pretend I don’t feel a matching blush spread over my face as his fingers twine around mine, but it doesn’t quite work. 

“N-no,” Marco stutters, “it wasn’t.  Look… I wish I had told you myself about what was going on with my” – self consciously, he falters, touching the still-fading bruise mottling over his jaw – “and I wish you’d told me about your fear.  But it didn’t work out like that.”

I stare at his feet for a few seconds, at his shiny leather riding boots, and slowly nod.  “How about… we agree to trust each other from now on?”

Marco doesn’t respond for a long moment.  When at last he does, his arms tighten around me comfortingly.  “That sounds like a deal, Jean Kirschtein.”

“Okay.”  I clear my throat, glancing guiltily towards him.  “Um, Marco, I was wondering if you could maybe… convince Rico to give me the rest of the day off?”  Again, I find myself staring at his boots.  “I don’t know if… I can be around horses today.”

“Of course.”  Marco’s arms unfurl from around me (cue mixed feelings), but as he lifts himself to his feet with a cute little grunt he fixes my hair for me (cue even more mixed feelings), then offers his hand to me (holy motherfucking God, king of mixed feelings over here). 

I take it happily, graciously pretending not to be bright red in the face again.  Perhaps my hand lingers a little longer in his than it should before I reluctantly let it slip away, but if he minds, he definitely doesn’t mention it.  He holds the stall door open for me, but it doesn’t feel like a pitying gesture.  It just sort of feels like _Marco_. 

“So, maybe it’s selfish of me, but…”  Marco hesitates, picking at the hem of his shirt.  Staring at some point directly next to my ear, he blurts out, “ _I really don’t want you to quit your job ‘cause I kind of like seeing you like every day._   Right.  Yeah.”

“I’m not quitting, Marco.”  I cuff him, but it’s really more like a kitten batting its paw.  “I won’t leave you alone with crazy shitheads like Ymir and Reiner.  What am I here for?”

“You mean other than bad comic relief?”

“Oh, ha, ha, I’m funny and you know it, Freckles.”  Unable to kill my smile, I roll my eyes.  “Look, um.  I’ll text you, okay?”

“Of course.”  Marco fishes a phone from his pocket, shaking it cheerfully.  “I’ll be waiting for when you need me.  I’ll be here.”

“Okay.”  I realize after a moment that this smile isn’t faked.  None of them ever are, around Marco.  “Sure.  Good luck, Marco.  Tell your brother… I said bye.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tada. Feels. Yes. Better writing than last chapter, if I do say so myself. Grief is an emotion I am unfortunately familiar with. I hope it doesn't feel too far-fetched to you guys... Jean always seemed like he'd be the kind of guy to stomach his bad memories and... well, guys, that never works out in the long run. Never.
> 
> With that said, I'm going to address a little topic that there seems to be a bit of worry about: this fic's constant updates. Now, I don't know if anyone else has noticed, but literally all the fanfictions on this site seem to just drop off after chapters 7, 8, 9, or 10. We're almost out of that zone, and I will try not to abandon you guys. Shouldn't be too hard, since you're all fucking adorable. 
> 
> Might release a one-shot soon? I don't know. It's just a plot bunny at this point, but it's a fucking fluffy one.


	11. Show Dates and "DATE ME?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco is nervous about the show and Jean is 100% certain that he's going to do great

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These dorks love each other okay  
> Sorry for delaying this so much; I have literally not had a break between school and sports. The time I usually allot for these dorks has been absorbed by sleeping. But hey! It's out!  
> Forgive me for any typos. If you'd politely point them out, I'd adore it. I'd adore you. You would have all of my adoration. The sole receiver of my utter adoration. You would be my god.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's been leaving kudos! ^.^ You guys are so cute and you have no idea how much it makes my day... 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Btw, here's Polo's [ear bonnet!](http://cdnll.doversaddlery.com/images/l/0023128.jpg)   
> You're welcome

The rest of the day goes relatively smoothly.  Of course, Marco doesn’t believe a lick of it, so he texts me throughout my lazy day off with the most trivial things, just to make sure that I’m keeping busy.

 

**From: My Future Boyfriend >>Hey did you get home okay**  
**> >Answer me  
** **> >Don’t you think I won’t ride Polo into Richmond and drag your ass down from that apartment to get answers**

**To: My Future Boyfriend >>wow did u just curse**  
**> >i am such a bad influence on you  
** **> >high 5 man**

**From: My Future Boyfriend >>*slaps screen***

**To: My Future Boyfriend >>… :/  
** **> >wht was that**

**From: My Future Boyfriend >>That was me slapping my screen with a high five  
** **> >I thought it made sense**

**To: My Future Boyfriend >>well it didnt u adorable dork**

**From: My Future Boyfriend >> You’re the dork**

**To: My Future Boyfriend >>r u srsly doing this**  
**> >bc u will lose  
** **> >u r the king of adorkable**

**From: My Future Boyfriend >>Flattering words, coming from the guy that squeaks like a mouse every time a pony steps on his shoe**

**To: My Future Boyfriend >>must i remind u of the hose hitler incidident**

**From: My Future Boyfriend >>That shouldn’t count!  I was helpless!**

**To: My Future Boyfriend >>and u were adorable as fuck  
** **> >u dork**

**From: My Future Boyfriend >>I swear to God you’re the dorkier one**  
**> >You just do it in little ways that are weird to point out  
** **> >Oh!  You talk to horses – if that’s not adorably dorky I don’t know what is**

**To: My Future Boyfriend >>apparently u dont kno what adorably dorky is**

**From: My Future Boyfriend >>oh shush you’re adorable and you know it  
** **> >You and your lovely hair**

**To: My Future Boyfriend >>u think its lovely?**

**From: My Future Boyfriend >>…**

**To: My Future Boyfriend >>well 4 ur information freckles r even more lovely bodt ;)**

* * *

 

Sasha and Connie’s well-wishings are practically the only thing that keeps me living in Krista’s tiny, eco-friendly Elantra. 

My phone is blowing up with blow-job tips and things to expect at fairgrounds, the best places to have sex in public and the flower language blossom for sex.  If Krista notices anything funny about me glancing down at my crotch literally every five seconds to respond to their texts, she doesn’t mention it. 

Hey, the girl can’t blame me for not paying a lot of attention.  She’s the one that’s playing the same damn Christina Perri album over and over again. 

The mood was a little tense when we first set out from West Trost Acres with our pre-painted surprise, leaving my rusty old car to rot in the parking lot in favor of Krista’s, but now, it’s rigid.  Other than Christina’s soft voice wailing about love and my occasional gasp from Krista’s frankly _terrible_ driving, there’s utter silence.  I fidget nervously, depending on blow-job tips from Sasha to keep me sane. 

Krista glances at me with concern, cocking an eyebrow.  “Jean, seriously, relax.  You’re sweating bullets.”

“So?” I snap, my voice a bit harsher than I’d intended. 

“So, that’s not very sexy,” she chastises, “and there’s nothing to worry about.  Just relax.  Nothing can go wrong.”

I make a noise in the back of my throat.  “I beg to differ.”

“You’ve got a team of devoted stablehands literally bending the heavens to help you out with this.”  She swings a hard left, throwing me against the door.  “Oops, sorry.  But seriously.  Reiner and Bertholt and Ymir and me.  What could go wrong?”

Studying her in the corner of my eye, I grumble, “Have you ever once considered that maybe he doesn’t like me back?  God, it would be so pathetic…”

Krista glares at me sideways until the car swerves again.  “Even if pigs started flying and it ends up that Marco doesn’t like you, he’ll still go out on a date with you after this.  This is the promposal teenage girls are looking for.  Trust me.”

I cross my arms and glare petulantly out the window as she swings a hard left and sends us hurtling down a pavement road populated with other cars sporting equine-related bumper stickers.  “Right, well, I don’t know if you noticed, but Marco is not a teenage girl.”

“Everyone is secretly a teenage girl, Jean.  Deep inside.”

“What?”  I shake my head slowly.  “You’re making less sense than Reiner on Mondays.  We here?”

“Mhmm.  This is the special parking, for contestants and families of contestants only.  Ymir’s waiting –”  The car jolts violently as another trailer pulls in front of us.  Krista honks her horn, startling me, and yells something unintelligible out the window. 

Joining her voice is another harsher, more guttural string of insults.  Scowling blackly, Ymir strides up, bangs her fist twice on the hood of the car, and waits for them to roll down their window.  She practically sticks her head into the tiny sliver, and begins chewing their heads off. 

“Ymir’s so cute,” Krista sighs, watching her girlfriend, “but she’s so protective.”  Glancing towards me, the little goddess punctuates her words with an exaggerated roll of her eyes.  “Those poor people probably made an honest mistake, and she’s just jumping down their throats…”

“You were doing the same thing,” I mumble, not loud enough for her to hear me clearly.  She doesn’t answer or ask for clarification, so I let my eyes wander over the first few glimpses of the area I receive through the sparse remaining trees separating us. 

The parking lot is alive with bustling families of little girls and snooty rich parents alike.  Adjacent to the parking lot for cars is another area on well-kept grass for trailers of the horses, each competitor with their own individual lot.  I think I see the monster of a horse that’s Titan (so, Reiner decided to show him, anyway, despite that fucked up mouth?) and a great big dun horse that I think also belongs to our stables.  Armor, or something? 

I can’t see Marco’s trailer anywhere.  I’m not sure how I feel about that. 

But it probably more than likely he’s warming Polo up in one of the practicing pastures.  Lunge-lining him, probably – I don’t think Marco would want to work him up too much before the competition, or at least this close to the competition time. 

I glance at the time on my phone.  Forty-five minutes until Marco’s competition starts.  Great.  This could either go really well or really, really badly.  I have no idea how long it takes for us to get tickets and seats and shit, but I’d rather not have to watch Marco awkwardly from the sidelines.  At least the stands seem moderately comfortable. 

The trailer rumbles off, jarring me from my daydreams.  Her hair falling from her ponytail and into her face, Ymir barks something viciously after them.  Her balled fists punch futilely towards the ground.  Huffing a visible puff of anger, she turns to face us. 

Krista cranes out the window, waving flailingly, a goofy smile huge across her face.  “Hiiii, Ymir!”

The woman’s scowl slowly shifts into a warm smirk.  “How ya’ll doing, darling?  Haven’t killed loverboy with your driving, have ya?”

“Don’t pretend to care!” I shout, angling myself towards the open window.  Ymir frowns for a second, as if it hadn’t quite gotten across, but then smiles slyly and shrugs. 

“Maybe your daily acts of dickhole have become endearing, horseface,” she calls back.  “’Sides, us homos gotta take care of our own!”

“You’re still an asshat!” I scoff. 

“Never said you weren’t one!”

“Guys,” Krista hisses self-consciously, “this is a family event.  I will turn this car around if you’re going to keep at it.”

I jab a finger at Ymir through the windshield.  “Butthole.”

“Testicle sack.”

“Female dog.”

“Offspring of a female dog.”

“Enough!” Krista giggles, clapping her hands over her ears and shimmying back into her seat.  “Ymir, where’s the parking place you reserved?”

“This way, darling.”  Ymir pads up next to the car, so close I fear for the safety of her toes.  “Lemme show you.  Don’t worry about Angel seein’ ya; he’s with Polo.  Reiner’s ass is camped somewhere nearby their trailer, though.”

“Is Bertholt here yet?” I ask. 

Ymir shrugs.  “If he came for his shnuckims’ performance, then he’s probably already here.  Reiner just came off the ring.”

“Oh, rats, I wanted to see him!” Krista sighs.  “Show us where the parking space is and then tell us all about his performance, okay?”

“Sure thing, sugarcube.  He didn’t do bad, but I don’t think he’s gonna win any ribbons, so he ain’t too pleased ‘bout that.  Oh, and this is your spot.”

“This one?”  Krista yanks a hard right and almost mows down Ymir, but the bigger woman just sidesteps and waves her forward. 

“Jesus, sweetheart, easy on the wheel!” Ymir chuckles, sounding amused more than annoyed.  “And yeah, this is it.  Sorry it ain’t too close.  Did the best I could.”

Krista peeps out the window and shrugs, sending the car weaving a bit again.  I clutch onto the door for dear life.  She pats my arm comfortingly (which doesn’t provide much comfort, I honestly just want both of her hands on the wheel) and leans out the door to say, “No, it’s fine, we don’t want Marco to see us or anything!”

“For fuck’s sake, Krista,” I breathe out nervously, eyeing her with trepidation.  “Eyes on the goddamn road.”

Luckily, Krista manages not to brutally maim anyone whilst parking, though she does smash into some kid walking through the lot.  After apologies to the parents and soothing of tears and more dirty looks than I’ve really ever received from a pair of suburbanite parents before, we’re on our way over the yard.  Ymir ignores me and soothes little Krista about the embarrassing collision, so I ignore her right back and focus on the area around me. 

There are two primary rings to the medium-sized showing area, both surrounded by stands closely resembling the shitty ones I’d had during high school.  Beyond a simple white picket-fence, the mulling crowd is curbed, like the rope separating the athletes from the stadium.  And, despite the somewhat crappy area, there’s a surprisingly big turn-up.  I think I remember Marco saying something about charity – it wouldn’t surprise me at all if it’s a big charity act. 

A man on a bugle horn drones out the time of the next set of riders to be in thirty minutes, and yeah, he’s right, Marco takes to the ring in thirty minutes.  People buzz with excitement, hastily gesturing towards vendors to make their food quicker, waddling from bathrooms, slipping down into their seats and waiting eagerly.  I swallow, worrying about finding a seat. 

I peer nervously between the heads, searching for my freckled rider amongst the millions lounging around behind the picket-fence.  They all look really dapper in their little outfits, even the kids with scruffy ponies in tow.  Arabians prance alongside Welsh ponies.  People warm up in the tiny practice corrals, sometimes with only one in a ring, sometimes as many as three. 

Polo is tied to one of the provided poles, waiting with the patience of a seasoned veteran.  Instead of his usual bridle get-up, he’s got a dark green sort of hat thing over his ears and forehead, maybe to cancel out the noise?  The man beside him is too stocky to be anyone but Reiner, and Marco – oh, Jesus Christ. 

I blink a few times, slowing slightly to study him from afar. 

Clad in a green jacket matching (perhaps coincidentally) the color of the West Trost logo, he stands out amongst the plain black and white outfits of those around him.  It isn’t a bad contrast, either – if Jesus was walking among us, I’m pretty sure he’d pop in a crowd, too.  Marco is literally no different. 

I elbow Krista, nodding over to him, watching him as he laughs at something Reiner says.  “Why’s he the only one wearing green?  Any reason for that?”

“Stop staring!” Krista hisses, grabbing at my sleeve.  “You’re going to ruin everything!”

“And,” Ymir adds, smacking my gaze away from Marco with the back of her hand, “Marco actually has some fashion sense.  Most dudes can’t see colors to save their life, can’t match their own goddamned socks – your boyfriend can actually pick out an outfit for himself that looks good.  There’s a few others out there.”

“Not all men are hopeless,” Krista giggles.

I cock my eyebrows.  “I’m taking personal offense in that.  I’m fucking stylish, man.”

“You’re also fucking gay, man,” Ymir mocks.  “Doesn’t count.”

“Oh.”  I scowl at her.  “ _Oh_.  That was ho-mo- _phobic_ , Ymir, you lesbian ass.”

She shrugs smugly.  “I’m just stating facts, lover boy.  Unless you’re gay or have your own personal dresser, boys can’t tell Crocs from Converse.”

“By that logic, Ymir,” Krista sighs, rolling her eyes, “we’d both be dressing like slobs.  I hope I look nice, and I know you do, so maybe you’d better, you know, give Jean a break every now and then?”

“You look beautiful, darling,” Ymir croons, pressing a kiss to the top of Krista’s head.  “And Jean can handle it.  It’s not like he can’t fight back or anything.  Pesky little warrior, ain’t ya, horseface?”

Heat rises to my face.  “Where did you pick that up?  Was it Jaeger?”

Ymir only laughs, throwing her head back with triumphant guffaws so whole and hearty it’d give Reiner a run for his money. 

 

* * *

 

“I can’t wait,” Krista whispers excitedly, fussing nervously with her hair.  Her knees bounce up and down expectantly, shaking the floorboards beneath our feet slightly.  “God, I hope this goes good for Marco – first place wins him a good amount of money to buy that car he’s missing, you know.”

Her words reinstate an anxious squirm in my stomach – I do not want a mopey, crestfallen Marco by the end of this.  Fucking hell, that is not what I need for this to happen without a kink.  I glance out over the ring and towards the waiting horsemen and women, my thoughts narrated by the loud, squalling voice over the speakers announcing that it’ll start in five minutes. 

“He’s got it in the bag,” I grunt in what I hope is nonchalant confidence.  “You know how he is on Polo.  Probably better than I do.”

Ever a source of fucking sunshine, Ymir makes a doubtful sound in the back of her throat.  She peers over Krista’s head of golden hair with a cocked eyebrow.  “You don’t know Annie – she only swings by on Wednesdays and weekends – but she’s got my money.  Love Bodt.  Really, I do.”

“But Annie is a more likely candidate,” Krista agrees with a resigned sigh.  “I had no idea she was coming to this.  Jesus.”

Faint memories of Annie churn lethargically in the back of my mind, unreachably tantalizing and just close enough to be maddening.  “…Who is she, again?  And how could you even suggest someone beating my little freckled horseman?”

“Little freckled horseman?” Krista repeats softly, amused. 

“Annie is the Devil incarnate,” Ymir announces, digging in her pockets for a packet of peanuts.  “Hell, she’s a great horsewoman, good at what she does.  But.  Her personality is Antarctica, minus the penguins and any other good qualities.”

“Be nice!” Krista says, smacking Ymir across the face.  “And don’t eat my peanuts!  Put those back where you found them!”

“But…”  Confused, I tilt my head to one side.  “How did you guys not know she was gonna be here?  Isn’t that, like, your jobs?”

“Your job too, jackass,” Ymir sneers.  “Have you already forgotten about our lovely time together?”

“Wish I could,” I counter without missing a beat.  “Give Krista her fucking peanuts back, bitch.”

She tosses the packet back glumly, but not without a muttered, “Dick.”

Despite the seeming antagonism between us, I can’t help but break out into a huge grin.  I try to hide my expression from her, turning my head to feign fascination in the heads of those several rows beneath us in the stands, but not before I catch a matching smile spread over Ymir’s freckled cheeks.  Love you, Ymir. 

We lapse into a comfortable silence.  My eyes linger over the growing line of riders, male and female, growing at the edge of the fence, singling out my green-jacketed hero, then traipsing my gaze over his competitors.  One of the horses, a tall pinto with two white splotches on its chest and a blondish mane, looks familiar – I guess that’s Annie’s mare.  Yet another mean horse from the Sina stable, it seems. 

Nibbling happily at one of the nuts (without offering any to her girlfriend, of course), Krista sighs.  “That’s too bad, though.  I know Marco was hoping for first.  But he can’t win everything, can he?”

“Fuck yeah he can,” I growl.  “He can do whatever he fucking wants.”

Ymir sighs exasperatedly.  “Minus the bigotry from overprotective boyfriend over here, no, he can’t.”

Krista flashes me an apologetic smile, but answers in an equally hopeless tone, “Well, there’s always second, right?”

“Bullshit.”  A pair of legs slam down in the sliver of space between Krista and I, causing the wood beneath all of our asses to shudder violently.  “I agree with Jean.  Marco is going to kick this Annie girl’s ass.”

Jumping up out of her seat and stumbling backwards, Ymir squeals like a pig, her arms pinwheeling.  Several heads turn to stare, their annoyed faces looking first to the frightened, and then to the frightener – and there they hold, slowly slipping into expressions less annoyed, more curious, more horrified.  It makes my stomach churn just slightly, those empty-eyed stares.  Plastering on my best fake smile, I turn to face Gabriele. 

“Hey, man, how long you been there?” I ask through my teeth, glaring at an onlooker over his shoulder.  “Creeping some people out.”

He glances towards Ymir (cowering behind a wary Krista) and smiles wryly.  “Yes, well.  I have to entertain myself somehow.  Thanks for sticking up for Marco, Jean.  Annie will have her ass kicked by the end of today, you just watch it.”

“You’re Marco’s older brother, aren’t you?”  Krista smiles shyly, squeezing Ymir’s thigh comfortingly.  “It’s sweet that you’ve got so much faith in him.”

“It’s not faith.”  Gabriele narrows his eyes, flicking his good hand towards the ring.  “It’s knowledge.  He’s going to win and I know it.  If he doesn’t, the judges will just be shitty and their opinions won’t matter.”

“We’ll have to see how we does,” Krista says indifferently.  “If it’s a flawless round, Marco’s got a huge chance of winning it.  But Annie always has flawless performances.  We’ll… just have to see.”

Gabriele nods several times.  “And swamp him in praise afterwards whether he did or didn’t succeed.  Yeah, I know.  Done this a time or two.”

The loudspeaker man blares through the stadium again, his voice just a mite bit more excited than before, announcing the event is about to begin, and for people to take their seats. 

I listen to him intently, falling in line as a hush spreads over the crowd as people silence one another and turn their gazes towards the ring.  My eyes flicker over Marco and where he stands beside Polo.  Being a ‘Bodt’, he’ll be one of the first (if not _the_ first) people out in the field.  Anxiously, I lean forward, waiting for the first rider’s name to be called.

“What does all this mumbo jumbo mean?” I mutter out of the corner of my mouth.  “What?  I’m so confused.”

“Show-jumping is divided into different levels of skill,” Krista whispers to me.  “So, like, different divisions.  Little beginners early today at Level 1.  Progressing onwards until right now.  This show only holds up to Modified, Level 5 – which is Marco’s level.  He’s going up against people of equal level.”

“Both he and Annie are qualified for Level 6, though,” Ymir says quietly.  “It’s difficult, and I don’t think either of them could place in a real competition, but it’s possible.”

I frown, turning to her as the dude introduces the judges.  “Why is he here, then?”

Gabriele chuckles from behind me, a low, scaly thunder that sounds a bit like a knife over gravel.  “The same reason he goes to fox-hunts but never shoots the damn things.”  He taps his feet once on the seat next to my ass.  “The social network of aristocrats.  He’ll be up against a lot of pressure, just like Reiner was earlier.”

“Oh, yeah, Reiner was earlier, wasn’t he?”  I purse my lips.  “So, like, how low is he on the level system, then?”

“Harder system.”  Krista points over to the other ring, where people are hastily setting up another system of jumps.  “Reiner jumps Hunter.  Believe it or not.”

“What’s Hunter?”

“Jesus Christ,” Gabriele sighs behind me.  “Focus on what’s going on, Jean.  There will be plenty of time to explain later – the first competitor is about to come into the ring.”

Sure enough, the announcer booms out the name to the first pair of horse and rider – a woman atop a grey horse trots shakily to the vague center of the ring, working in total contrast to one another.  The mare wants to go one way, and the rider’s urging it another.  Already, I can tell that this is going to be bad. 

“Introducing Cloud Nine, ridden by Katy Adams,” the voice squawks, and the pair sets off in a flurry of pathetic applause for their pathetic performance. 

“Katy Adams?”  Ymir whistles softly under her breath.  “I dare you to find a whiter name.”

“It’s an adult white bitch,” I murmur for her ears only. 

“Only a few specimen remain preserved in captivity,” she says without missing a fucking beat, “and many of those in the wild were hunted down long ago by their predators.  Straight.  White.  Boys!”

“Very nice,” Gabriele comments in as lilting a tone as he can manage in a hoarse voice like that.  It still brings mountains of glee to me as Ymir pales and stares pointedly at her feet for thirty seconds straight, unblinkingly terrified. 

The White Bitch Empress and her not-so-loyal steed do predictably terrible.  They knock down two poles and nick another by the time I stop watching.  I don’t even want to think about what that terrible smack into one of the wall jumps did to the horse’s legs.  Thankfully, Marco finds his way to bring a smile to my face. 

 

**From: My Future Boyfriend >>I’m going to go on any moment now… I’m so nervous.  Gabriele’s going to be watching and I don’t want to let him down!  God.  I’m just…  This is nerve-wracking.  
** **> >Help me**

I scowl and shake my head, wishing I could just send him all the disapproval and approval I feel in equal measure.  Does he have every reason to be freaking the fuck out?  Absolutely, I would be too.  But this is _Marco_.  Sweet, flawless _Marco_.  If he fails this, he’s got a fucking armada of mother hens waiting to sweep him off his feet and wipe his tears.  If he fails.  And that’s still pretty fucking doubtful in my books. 

 

**To: My Future Boyfriend >>Marco fucking bodt u listen here u r going to beat their asses**  
**> >those homophobes r going down u hear me**  
**> >u have trained for literally ages leading up to this thing and love polo more than u love me and it sort of hurts :’)  
** **> >even if u dont manage to kick every single ass and horseass in ur thing make fucking sure u kick most of them and do it in the name of that horse u love more than me**

“Ooh, that last jump was not pretty, although the poles remain intact!” the announcer bellows.  “Well, folks, it was a bit of a rough run, but let’s hear it for Katy Adams and her horse, Cloud Nine!”

A few faint cheers ring out from the stadium, a couple of whistles, and a lot of half-assed clapping.  If this is the reception you get afterwards, no wonder Marco’s nervous.  Hell, I would be too.  After a few seconds of the awkward clapping, Ymir stands up and shouts out a few praises to the White Bitch Empress (“YOU INSPIRE ME WITH YOUR LACK OF PERSONALITY!”), causing a few more cheers, but otherwise, the crowd is literally dead. 

Shit, shit, shit.  I can’t even be a loud, obnoxious cheerer after Marco finishes up.  Not without ruining the surprise.  Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck –

The phone buzzes in my hand. 

 

**From: My Future Boyfriend >>Don’t make assumptions about who I love more.  Wish me luck!**

_Don't make assumptions about who I loved more._ Fuck.  Why don't you just shoot me in the heart, Marco?

“Next up we have Marco Bodt riding Horsing Around, a twice-time winning pair of the VHSA, but I’m sure you all know that!  Don’t y’all, you horse people?”

I feel bad for poor Katy Adams as a roar passes through the stadium, with perhaps the loudest voice of them all behind us.  Undaunted by Gabriele’s bellows, Ymir stands up again, pulling Krista on her feet beside her, and whistles like a maniac. 

Marco looks up from the saddle, beaming up with sparkling eyes, and waves shyly towards the crowd. 

 

**To: My Future Boyfriend >>Dude u had nothing 2 worry about they love u  
** **> >Polos fuckingloving it**

 

The horse definitely seems more thrilled than the rider this time – Polo prances to the center of the ring, throwing up his head in his dorky ear-hat thing.  Marco seems as amused with it as everyone else, patting his horse on the neck.  Once the applause calms down, so does Polo. 

I lean forward apprehensively.  The buzz of eager conversation hums in my veins, keeping pace with my heartbeat.  C’mon, Marco.  You’ve got this, man.

He starts out good.  Polo glides into an easy pace right off the bat, and sails over the first jump, no problem, and, _shit,_ a picture of his front hooves colliding with the sand would’ve made an excellent addition to the portfolio I’m supposed to assemble by the end of the semester, but whatever.  Too late now, I guess.  Plus… I can always get Marco to model for me again. 

Things continue to work out smoothly.  Working with his usual calm communication, Marco guides his horse flawlessly through an oxer and a hogsback, turning on a dime to then clear a simple vertical.  Crowds cheer as Polo clears the wall jump that had screwed with Katy Adams. 

“Astounding round so far, folks!” the man roars over the loudspeaker.  “Look at the pair go!  Clean, very clean performance!”

My grin hurts my cheeks a bit, but I can’t make myself quell it.  It just feels so right, seeing Marco out there, doing perfectly.  This is Marco.  This is what he’s been doing all his life.  The carefree ease in his smile, the peace in his motions – it’s so refreshingly him. 

I may not like horses very much, but, fuck, Marco loves them.  But I’m starting to realize… I’m okay with that.  If it makes him keep smiling.  And maybe I’ll learn to be okay with them someday. 

As Polo’s hooves drum against the sand with heavy thump after heavy thump, Marco aligns him with the next obstacle – it’s a combination, a set of jumps growing significantly harder as it goes.  The anticipation rides high on the wind. 

“Bodt approaches the jump that threw off our other competitor, but something tells me Horsing Around isn’t going to get off with a refusal!”

Polo’s ears prick forward as he first catches sight of the jumps, but, as Marco leans forward in preparation for liftoff, his ears flick backwards. 

Gabriele sucks in a breath loudly behind us, a small, worried gasp.  The first pang of alarm pulls at my heartstrings. 

The horse’s hooves easily clear the first hurdle, slamming to the ground with perfect form – but they hit the ground slightly too heavily.  Polo staggers almost imperceptibly in his landing.  It feels like only Marco, the judges, and I have picked up on it, for all of our smiles are replaced with frowns of concern, worry, or criticism. 

“Uh oh,” Krista breathes as Polo uncertainly approaches the next obstacle in the set, his ears pinned to his neck.  There isn’t time for him to recover, to regain his footing – Marco’s form is perfect, but Polo is off.  The jump is awkward, the horse’s heels flying too high up in the air, almost more like a buck than a leap. 

With a tense “oooh,” the crowd begins to notice Polo’s unsteadiness.  A collective mass leans forward, awaiting to see what becomes of the next jump.  The man over the loudspeaker (who I’ve decided is probably a fat son of a bitch with no life) laps it up, crowing about an odd landing.

My heart is in my throat.  It’s as short a distance for Polo to recover as it had been last set – and this one is a Liverpool.  

I don’t think there’s any Liverpool jumps at West Trost Acres.  I wouldn’t call Polo completely unprepared, but he’s not ready for it now especially, with a crooked stride and unsteady footing.  The whites of his eyes flash with panic as he canters closer to the next jump, his ears going impossibly back further. 

“Oh, shit,” I whisper, throat clenching as Polo jumps awkwardly up the vertical. 

For a second – for half a glorious, hopeful second – I think that Horsing Around, apparent two-time champion, might successfully land his jump despite all odds.  His front two hooves land safely on the other side, and his back legs soar over the poles. 

However, his hind feet slam into the water as he lands, splashing up his hindquarters and wetting his neatly braided tail. 

“Oooo, what a disappointment,” purrs the announcer.  “That’s four faults, folks!  Four precious faults that could cost Bodt!”

“Oh, fuck you,” Gabriele growls, “you lonely-ass old man.”

The stadium releases a collective sigh of disappointment – I deflate slightly alongside of them, shaking my head.  Poor Polo.  Poor Marco. 

Marco, however, is unperturbed.  His smile isn’t quite as confident as before, as radiant, but it’s still soft and it sparkles with a light I doubt I’ll ever be able to understand.  Slowing Polo’s pace just a hair with a light tap of his riding crop, he lets his horse regain his footing.  It only takes Polo a stride before his ears prick right back up again. 

The next two jumps fly by.  Almost as if compensating for his error, Polo is an angel.  The applause returns, more jubilant than ever, and the fat bitch of an announcer squawks about maybe Marco’s otherwise perfection on the round making up for his _massive_ blunder earlier on the course.  It doesn’t take a lot to get people cheering for him again – Ymir just about ruins her vocal chords yelling at people to clap louder for him, but that’s… _Ymir_. 

On the final jump, Marco has the nerve to laugh.  He throws back his head and laughs carelessly, his expression holding unbridled happiness and a sort of joyful relief.  When Polo lands steadily on all fours and the applause explodes into life, he throws down the reins and lifts his arms up to the sky with a bubbling giggle, grinning up at the clouds like he’s praising some sort of god. 

“THAT IS MY BOY!” Gabriele fucking roars, standing up and furiously clapping.  Ymir practically goes into convulsions with her celebrations, reminding me much more of an angry gorilla than she really should, and I don’t think I’m imagining Krista wiping her eyes of slight tears. 

Me?  I’m just sitting here beaming like a goddamned tool.  Watching as people around me cheer for my crush.  Feels great.  Feels really fucking great.  Because Marco’s got all these people that love him, all these random-ass people standing up in the stands and clapping their fingers off for him.  I almost feel bad for Katy Adams. 

“Yes, you beautiful piece of freckled ass,” I whisper, watching him collapse against Polo’s neck.  “God, Marco, you are like, _the_ best person.”

 

* * *

 

I weave around a pair of horses, nervously eyeing their hindquarters and avoiding eye contact with their snobby riders.  Still, I feel their skeptical gazes trained on me as I curve in a huge circle around the horses, and, oh my God, come on, stop staring at my piercings.  Jesus.  You’d think these people never see street trash. 

 _Oh, wait,_ I think sourly to myself. 

“There he is!” Krista cries, jabbing a finger across the yard.  I snap my gaze over to where he gestures almost immediately, and –

_Holy shit._

Marco’s riding jacket is unbuttoned and his helmet propped beneath an arm.  Flushed, pink cheeks paint over his cute freckles, and his long, dark lashes brush at the edges of his cheekbones.  Sweat rolls in rivulets down his temples, his jaw, his neck.  His head is propped back and his lips purse oh-so-prettily around the mouth of a water bottle, every gulp sending his Adam’s apple bobbing. 

I choke a bit in my mouth.  That… should not be so erotic.  _It’s not like you’ve never seen people drinking before.  Jeez, Jean, head out of the gutter._

“Marco!” Krista squeals, dancing across the yard.  “You did amazing!”

_Jean, Jean, this is your moment._

Marco holds up a finger towards her in a “give me a sec” gesture, clearly wanting to finish off his water bottle. 

_Go sweep that erotic piece of ass off his feet._

“Yeah, man,” I call, cringing internally at how rough my voice is.  “Why the hell were you worried?”

His eyelids burst apart, and he spits nearly spits his water all down his pretty green jacket.  Through a few coughs and thoroughly unsexy gagging noises, Marco manages to swallow his mouthful, staring at me in awe. 

“Jean!” he squeaks, dropping the helmet in favor of fiddling with the cap of his water bottle.  “I – what?  You’re here?  I thought –“

“Where else would I be?” I break in.  A smile cleaves through my cool kid attitude as his adorable confusion.  “Marco, I wouldn’t miss your show.  Not for anything.”  _Play it cool, play it cool._ “You’re important.  More… no, um.  Most important.”

He flushes beet red, his freckles dissolving into his all-over blush.  My cheeks feel hot, too.  Shit.  Shit, shit, shit.  That was meant to be me sweeping him off his feet, but – this just feels awkward. 

_Say something.  Don’t let it become more awkward._

What am I fucking supposed to say now?  Isn’t he supposed to be swept off his feet?  What the hell next?

“Thank you, Jean,” Marco says, smiling at the ground like an idiot, his eyes… soft.  Is that tenderness directed towards me?  “That… means a lot.  I’m so happy you came.  It’s… most important, too.”

I think I see who’s going to be doing the sweeping in this thing. 

Scratching at the back of my neck and blushing like a virgin idiot, I stutter out a thanks.  A twisted smile insistently yanks the corners of my lips upwards despite my firm resolve to remain impassive, probably creating a twisted sort of grimace. 

Mumbling things to each other, several other riders point our direction, brows lowered skeptically and lips perked in a sneer.  They’re probably the assholes that sent Marco into tears.  I pick my head up and flash them my best _I-am-going-to-be-under-your-bed-tonight_ murder eyes. 

Krista giggles.  “You two are cute.  And you did incredible, Marco – perfect time, great jumping.”

“I was nervous when I saw there was a combination with a Liverpool,” he sighs, glancing over to where Polo chugs down water from a trough.  “He’s just okay with both of those jumps, and I never thought there’d be an obstacle like that in one of these little things.  I think it screwed both of us up.”

“Your form was perfect over the Liverpool, Marco,” Gabriele rumbles, prowling up with crossed arms.  “Polo was just a bit tripped up.  We don’t have any Liverpools at Trost, do we?”

Marco beams at Gabriele, setting his water bottle down to skip up to his brother’s side.  He doesn’t hesitate in throwing his arms around Gabriele, or nuzzling up against his chest. 

“I’m sorry I screwed up,” he moans, squishing his face into Gabriele’s shoulder.  “I usually do better than that, I swear – onetime thing with the Liverpool!”

“We’ll just have to fix that,” Gabriele growls, locking an arm around Marco’s back and squeezing him tight for just a second.  “Ain’t no fault of yours.  I’m so proud of you, cutie. Now you’ve got something to practice.”

“And, honestly, who do they think they are?” Ymir says with an unholy scowl, her eyes black.  “A Liverpool in a combination?  Can they even do that?”

“It was definitely really strange,” Krista agrees crossly.  “Amateur horse shows, I guess.”

“Stupid ass jump,” Reiner agrees with a harrumph, wandering up with hair that’s obviously had Bertholt all through it.  “Ain’t your fault, little man.”

“You were perfect,” I mumble.  Jerking his head away from Gabriele’s shoulder, Marco stares at me in quiet surprise.  Cheeks ablaze, I clear my throat and add, louder, “When do we get the results?  I mean, do we have to stick around, or can we bolt?”

Marco frowns, his brow creasing and lips pursing slightly.  “Um.  Well.  We don’t get the results back until tomorrow – it’s a bit silly, considering most people could guess it themselves just by watching.  But it would be rude to leave early… right?”

“Sparklebutt, we’re leaving,” Ymir grunts, throwing an arm around Krista.  Catching a strand of her girlfriend’s hair in her mouth and tugging gently, Ymir mumbles, “I ain’t sticking around any longer.”

Krista yanks her hair from Ymir’s mouth (much to the other woman’s dismay) and blushes pastel pink, a smile that she thinks perhaps is hidden toying with the corners of her lips.  “Stop it,” Krista whispers, shoving at Ymir – accidentally, she jabs her girlfriend in the boob, which only gets Ymir excited again. 

“Um, well, I have to pack Polo up,” says Marco, more than a little flustered.  He detaches from Gabriele’s side, leaning down to grab his helmet as he walks past me.  “Will we meet you guys back at the Acres?”

“Yeah, no, that ain’t happening.”  Ymir smacks the back of my head as I appreciate the view of Marco leaning down in the least innocent way.  “Jean, you check and make sure that the trailer is still spiffy.”

“I’m not on duty, Ymir,” I say with a scowl.

“Fuck that.”  She shoots me a meaningful glare.  “Stay behind and let Freckles go on ahead.  Have some quality with the horses.  _Y’know._ ”

I slam my mouth shut, nodding with widened eyes.  Right, fuck.  Almost screwed that one up.

Marco glances back at me, his eyes gleaming with a latent knowledge.  “You don’t have to do anything, Jean.  Like you said, you’re off duty.”

“It’s fine, man.”  I grin at him.  “Head home with Krista.  Grab some McDonald’s.  Ymir and I got his, don’t we, bitch?”

I elbow her in the ribs, resting an arm on her shoulder and trusting her with maybe more of my weight than I should.  Luckily, Ymir just grins animally, punching me much harder than I’d hit her in the stomach and ruffling my hair.  I feel a bunch of eyes watching us, but I can’t bring myself to care. 

Very, very quietly, Krista says, “She’s my bitch.  Not yours.”

 

* * *

 

“Stop freaking the fuck out,” Ymir snarls.  “Jesus Christ.  The hard part is over.”

I glance at her across the cramped truck area with poisonous daggers in my eyes.  Her nose is crumpled up in a sneer of disapproval, and her narrow, dark eyes trained on the road before us.  More stray hairs fly from her ponytail after the hour she’s spent with her head against the upholstery seat. 

Why out of everyone, I had to make the journey with _her,_ I don’t know.  Reiner and Marco are packed into Krista’s little car and will meet us there if they survive her god-awful driving, but instead of listening to some of Reiner’s crappy music, I’m listening to _her_ country singers wail from the radio.  _Her_ companionship instead of Krista’s or Marco’s. 

…I honestly don’t know if I’m happy or not for her brash company.

“You have the right to remain silent,” I grumble, glancing out the window at the rolling mountains of Virginia. 

She heaves out a huge sigh.  “Jean, I haven’t heard a word from you since we switched Polo’s blankets.  _And that was ages ago._ I just wanna see a condescending smirk instead of an ugly scowl.”

“My scowls are beautiful,” I argue, glowering at her in the corner of my eye.  “Plus, shouldn’t you be paying attention to the road?”

Ymir moans melodramatically.  “I have been driving these shitty trailers since I could walk.  Seriously, my first time was when I was thirteen.  You are safe in Auntie Ymir’s hands.  What’s got your goat, Jean?”

With a sigh, I collect my thoughts, absentmindedly playing with a string at the hem of my T-shirt. 

“If you’re worried about Marco rejecting you I swear to fuck I’m dropping you off right here.”

“Ymir!”  I grab an old, stale cracker from the door and throw it at her, but she ducks with a laugh and it thunks pointlessly against the window.  “I will take you down with me, bitch!”

She flicks me off, grinning.  “See, that’s the condescending smirk I was looking for.  More like the Junny Bun I know.”

“Shut the fuck up, Ymir.”

“Seriously, Jean.”  Her tone grows more serious.  She reaches across the way and nudges against my arm roughly, passing a sneerin  g smile my direction.  “You shouldn’t be so nervous.  Everything is going to be perfect.  You’re gonna get your scrawny ass _laaaaid_.” 

I can’t tell her that it’s not solely Marco that’s making me tense.  In his own way, the angel of a man is intimidating – I never know how to act around him, how to conduct myself, how to keep from smashing our lips together.  And sometimes, it’s _really hard._ But I can handle it somehow, and, if everything goes right, I should be able to kiss each one of his freckles as we pass in the stables sooner than later.

No, it’s more of the _everything going right_ that has me worried. 

Polo wouldn’t hurt me, not ever – I know this.  Sweet and gentle as his rider, the bay wouldn’t hurt a fly (literally – Marco has to bat them away for his horse when the weather gets hot).  Still… he is an animal.  Like any other creature here at the stable, he could spook, he could startle, and…

I swallow, forcing a smile towards Ymir and looking back out the window. 

And I’d be at square one again. 

 

* * *

 

“Took y’all long enough, but at least you’re here now!” Krista giggles, helping me with the latch to the trailer side door.  Inside, the horses lift their heads and turn to her with wide eyes, eager to finally exercise at their own pace after hours of being cramped up in busy showgrounds and stuffy metal boxes. 

“Blame Ymir’s driving,” I sigh in exasperation, eyeing the lazy bitch where she lolls about in the driver’s seat of the truck.  Catching my gaze in the rearview mirror, she grins and pulls a mocking salute. 

“You’re so mean,” Krista sighs, her nimble fingers pulling at the last latch on the door.  “Ah, there we go!”

With a blast of horse-odor and musty hay, the trailer door swings open.  Both Titan and Polo lift their heads to face me.  I eye Titan with trepidation – whoever thought it was a good idea to put him on the side with the door deserves to be skewered on a shishkabob.  The massive stallion rumbles low in his throat, lips peeling back in a threatening sneer. 

“Everything go without a hitch?” Krista asks brightly, completely blind to the terrifying monster that is Titan.  Her voice dips lower.  “Are you ready, Jean?”

“I feel like I’ve got a target painted on my back,” I grumble, maneuvering myself inside the trailer and pressing against the wall, cool metal seeping through my shirt to my shoulder bones.  “Where’s Marco and Reiner?”

“They went up to the House on the Hill to change,” she answers with a chuckle.  “Ymir’s got an eye on them, and she’s running recon with Reiner.  She’ll shoot me a text when it’s time.  You ready?  Apply fresh deodorant, fresh cologne?”

I scoff down at her, shaking my head.  In the corner of my eye, I see Titan shift his weight, but I do my best to just ignore that.  “You are literally like a doting parent.  Everything’s fine, God.  But, um, where’s Gabriele?”

For some reason, it matters a great deal to me where Marco’s older brother could be.  I want his approval and I want him to see how hard I’m trying for Marco – how good I’m being – but every thought of that keen, brown eye trained critically on me dissolves my courage like acid. 

Frowning, she tilts her head to one side.  “I _think_ he’s in Stable Maria with Erwin?  I don’t know, he trickled off.  He seems a bit shy, doesn’t he?  In a weird way, though.”

“He’s got half a face covered in scars.”  I shrug, sliding my feet along the floor and side-stepping very, very gingerly, careful not to make a move that could startle the horses.  “Wouldn’t blame him at all.”

Titan’s bulbous eyes follow my progress – he clearly hasn’t forgiven me for taking Polo out that second time in the field behind the Burger King so we could switch the blankets, but leaving the grumpier stallion stuck in the trailer _._

Krista leans up against the doorframe, pursing her lips consideringly.  “That’s true.  And trauma like that – he must want to be alone every now and then.  Y’know, PTSD.”  She hisses out a quick breath as Titan lifts one of his hind hooves threateningly.  “ _Careful,_ Jean!  Those hooves aren’t something to joke about!”

Throat tightening, I dart behind Titan quickly, all but throwing myself against the opposite wall.  I release a gasp of relief the moment my palms spread against the cool metal of the trailer’s wall – shoulders rocking, biceps trembling, I lean against my back and flash Krista a quick smile. 

Polo is curious, more than anything.  He turns his head back as much as he can in his cramped area, whickering a few times.  I grin at that idiot, too, and his stupid-ass expression – the pathetic attempt I’d made at making a flower crown from the four-leaf clovers and their white blossoms wilts over his forehead, ripped apart by the constant swiveling of his ears. 

I roll my eyes towards the horse, refusing to feel disappointed about that damn flower crown – I’d gotten Ymir to help me, and it’s a good thing that bitch is not going into education.  Seriously, I slaved away on that crown for like, fifteen minutes.  Oh, well.  In a way, the white buds and wrinkled green leaves make him look even dorkier – it’s a less-than-perfect winner’s wreath, maybe. 

“Is the paint still okay?” Krista calls, plodding up to Titan and seizing him by the halter.  “It didn’t smudge or fade?”

Cautiously, I run my fingers over the splattered white text scrawled sloppily over the old, tattered blanket.  “It looks fine to me.  So, what – do we just wait here in this shithole until we get the all-clear from Ymir?”

“Yep.”  Krista perks her lips tenderly as she receives a text from her girlfriend.  “Grab the latch on your side of the door, will you?  I can push it open.”

Complying, I undo a huge metal hook, and shove open the window space on this side.  Shuffling forward, Krista braces her foot on the ramp, gives it a solid kick, and watches with a tad of smugness as it crashes to the ground. 

Gilded sunlight streaks in through the new doorway.  Is it sundown already?  It doesn’t feel much like it.  Time flies when you’re stressing out, I suppose. 

Krista’s phone beeps again.  “That’s the signal,” she warns.  “You have Polo, or should we stall for a minute more?”

A huge lump forms in my throat.  Jerkily, I grasp tightly around Polo’s lead line, yanking his head slightly.  He doesn’t do more than grumble, but I shoot him an apologetic glance anyway – I don’t need angry horses on my conscious, anyway. 

Fuck, I can feel my cheeks burning.  Bundling my shaking hands closer against my chest, I try to calm my panting, focusing on the even breathing of Polo beside me.  The horse nibbles at my hair gently, with just the edges of his gentle, velvety lips – a geyser of emotions shoots off in my stomach the moment he first touches me, but I can’t tell whether it’s good or bad.

“Fuck it,” I grumble, glancing once nervously up at Polo.  “Let’s do this.”

Snorting a soft breeze into my face, Polo nuzzles against my neck and sends an armada of goosebumps scurrying down my back.  With a quivering hand, I nudge his muzzle away, ignoring the clop of his hooves as he shifts his weight behind me. 

 _Hey, Jean,_ he seems to be saying, _I ain’t so bad.  Don’t you worry about nothing from me, no sir!_

“Okay, bud.”  Only half sure of myself, I step out towards the ramp.  “Let’s do this.”

Polo follows without a qualm, feet clicking against the metal.  His head bobs beside me, slightly restricted by the halter I’m holding stiffly by my side.  I try to loosen up my locked muscles to grant him a bit of leeway, but they won’t respond.  I grimace tightly towards the horse, managing a fake smile.  _Sorry, man._

One of his back hooves clip the heel of my boots on the ramp.  Tingles explode across my entire leg, white-hot instinct shafting through nerves and exploding my heart with a mini-heart attack.  I lurch forward, yanking Polo’s head a bit. 

Once I’m free from under his foot, I relax quite quickly, the tension almost leaving my shoulder blades.

“Ah, sorry,” I croak, glancing furtively back at him. 

Polo only shakes his mane, his big, brown eyes still one-hundred percent okay.  Those huge, huge eyes stay steadily trained on me, and, strangely, I can’t make myself look away.  I breathe batedly with a tight throat, and my blood pulses through stiff limbs.  His eyes… so like his rider’s. 

So large and huge, with an overlaying sense of peace.  A serenity to them found even when he’s tied down, when he can’t even swing his head, can’t walk without restriction.  Fringed with gorgeous, dark lashes. 

My stomach churns and tears, as if it’s being ground through a pair of gears.  A light sweat breaks out on my brow.  Through the quiver of my lips, I manage a weak smile. 

Very, very slowly, I relax my grip, and continue to walk him out of the trailer. 

His hooves thunk on the metal, then on the sand.  I… I don’t falter?  For some reason, the coiling in my stomach churns no more, and all thoughts of fear are all but forgotten.  Well, no.  In the back of my throat, it’s still dry, and every time the horse kicks sand onto the back of my leg, I choke a little.  My breathing still isn’t quite normal, and the back of my neck feels slick with sweat where Polo’s hot breath pools against the cool skin. 

 _But,_ I think, glancing with a nervous smile down at the slack length of line in my hand, _this isn’t so bad.  Terrifying, yeah.  I mean, he could totally take me out from behind –_

I choke a little in my mouth. 

_Don’t think about that, you bitch-ass little fucker.  Think about how good you’re doing.  What a good horse Polo is._

“You are a good horse, aren’t you, boy?” I whisper, my voice a reedy imitation of its usual tone.  Cautiously, I fall back a step or two and align Polo’s head with my shoulders – very, very carefully, I reach up and stroke my fingers along his muzzle. 

It’s weird – soft and squishy, warm.  Not wholly unpleasant.  Fascinated, I trace around his nostril lightly with the pad of one finger.  His breath feathers along the palm of my hand with just the barest of caresses.  I stare at him for a good while after letting my hand hang back by my side. 

I don’t really think very much that Polo’s a horse.  Not really.  I sort of just tune it all out – not really something I should be doing, honestly.  I tune out the rapidly approaching stables, tune out Krista walking behind me with Titan, tune out even the hastily scrawled words written of “DATE ME?” in white paint over Polo’s blanket and the consequences that may arise. 

My phone rattles to life with a tinny iPhone ringtone in my pocket – in one fell swoop, reality rushes back.  Sloppily, I dig my phone from my jeans (note to self: the aesthetics of your ass in a pair of pants shouldn’t be the only thing taken into consideration).  With fingers shaking from an utterly different reason than usually, I jab at the answer button and lift it up to my ear. 

“Hello?” I practically whisper into the speaker, shutting my eyes for half a second. 

“Yes.”  The nervous giggle on the other end is breathy, excited.  “Oh, my God, Jean, yes.”

“Yes?” I repeat, my pulse spiking, but not of fear for the horse by my side.  The beginnings of a dorky grin pulling at my willpower, I peek around Polo.  My gaze finds a pair of tiny dots inching down the pathway from the House on the Hill far away, one with a blond head of hair and moving slowly, the other jogging my way.  A trill of affection patters down my spine. 

“Yes.”  He laughs more genuinely this time, and I feel myself melting into its careless joy.  “Oh my God, Jean, look at you!  You’re leading Polo!  You’re… _you’re leading Polo!_ ”

“Yeah,” I chuckle, glancing up at the horses huge brown eyes.  “I am.  Cool, isn’t it?”

“ _Cool?_ ” Marco parrots with a hint of dismay.  “Jean, it’s _amazing_.  I… I’m so _proud_ of you.”

Oh fuck.  That does painful things to my stomach – I feel it tie in a knot, pulled tight with the strangest sort of happiness.  My smile widens, and the desire to both simultaneously cry and grin like an idiot surge up from the knot in my innards.  The dryness to my throat makes it difficult to swallow, to deliver my words without a slight quiver. 

“T-thank you, Freckles,” I whisper.  “Really – I mean… thanks.”

“You’ve conquered your fear of Polo, then?” Marco presses eagerly, panting a bit into the phone.  “When did that happen?”

“Umm… right now, actually.  That’s why I looked like I was being forced at gunpoint the first few strides, actually.”

“Oh, well, I couldn’t tell.”  The dot hits the bottom of the hill, growing faster and faster the closer he becomes.  “You looked… like a natural.  So… proud…”

I feel the clench in my stomach, and, unable to stem the flush of pleasure, I grin, just a little bit. 

“Hey, Freckles,” I tease softly, “you might want to slow down.  If you trip and fall and break your head open, the date’s off.  Unless you consider a night in a hospital a great first date.”

“Not… happening.”  He laughs gaspingly.  “Lord.  I am out of shape.”

“If you’ve got the body from a few days ago, then trust me, you’re not.”  Starting, I blink a few times.  “N-not that I was looking!  I just noticed!”

“It’s okay, Jean,” Marco soothes in a softer tone of voice.  He’s so close I can make out his moviestar-white grin, yawning over his face beatifically.  “Nude modelling… right?”

“Oh my God, Marco,” I chuckle, slightly in awe.  I hope he notices that I don’t refuse his offer, because there’s no way I’d ever do that.  “Listen, I’m going to hang up, okay?”

Down the road from me, he lifts his phone into the air, waving it about, and shouts, “Okay!”

In the next moment, he is upon me. 

Marco throws his arms around my torso in a smothering embrace – his arms cage me against him, hands flattened against my back, and his head buries in my shoulder.  Honestly, it’s less than some of the other hugs I’ve received from him, but it feels more… real.  Strangely enough.  Like I’ve unearthed a different sort of interaction with him, a gentleness in the way he holds me, and yet also a savagery.  An excited tingle prickles down my back; the fact that I find this to be a turn-on really should be some sort of warning signal. 

“I’m so proud of you,” Marco whispers into my hair.  A tingling pleasantness spreads over my skin from the places his lips touch me.  Oh, fuck.  I try not to imagine what those lips might feel like, might taste like.  I try.  I really do.  I blame my inability on the mind-numbing fact that Marco’s pressed up against me, and that our bodies seem to sort of fit together _perfectly…_

_Rein it in there, Jean._

Perhaps noticing my tenseness, Marco pulls back, but his smile is unmarred.  “Did you do this yourself?” he asks, brushing his fingers over the paint on Polo’s blanket. 

A weak chuckle forces itself out of my throat.  “Who else has handwriting that shitty?”

Turning to me with eyes brimming in golden sincerity, Marco smiles, and his face adopts a fuzzy softness, almost like he’s melting or swooning or something.  “Jean, you’re literally the best person on this planet.  You know that, right?”

I feel my ears getting red.  “Says the freckled messiah,” I mutter, turning my bashful smile into a scowl and kicking at a stone. 

Marco only laughs.  Truly, there’s not a more beautiful sight than that on this entire picturesque farm.  I watch the jump of his Adam’s apple and the slight dance of his bobbing shoulders, raptured, and a smile somehow paints itself on my lips despite my protests.  He throws an arm around my shoulder, and, though I tense up immediately, I feel myself loosening up and leaning into him more.  He’s warm.  Pleasantly warm. 

Carefully, I sling an arm around his waist, too.  The absentminded smile becomes sunny, his eyes filled with a sort of cheerful adoration.  I risk a glance towards them to find him staring at me, so I look away, sparing myself with only the slightest of blushes. 

“You’re secretly adorable, Jean,” Marco whispers, pulling me from a reverie.  “You can try to hide it, but it won’t work.  I know the truth.”

Oh, fuck.  Cue the slight blush becoming a scarlet inferno.  “Sh-shuddup,” I mumble, shoving at him.  

Marco tosses his head back and laughs, eyes sparkling.  “Hey, Jean?” he asks between chuckles. 

“Yeah?”

“How about we get Polo settled in for the night, help Reiner with Titan, and then head back to the… Speckled Potato?”  He scrunches his nose and furrows his brow in his confusion, a combination that leaves my sanity reeling.  “Peppered Potato?  Yeah, that sounds right.”

“Peppered Potato,” I agree, giving his waist a tentative squeeze.  “And… that literally sounds like the best thing I’ve heard today.”  Risking a quick glance upwards towards his face, I flash him an all-too-swift smile.  “Can we?”

Marco squeezes me back.  “Of course we can.”

I feel like dissolving into his perfect, perfect smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> D'awww. They love each other.  
> Anyway, um. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! My fluffy babies taking the time to be fluffy... and their armada of shippers + poor clueless Bertholt. 
> 
> Seriously, comment. I love all of you. I'd be lying if I said past comments on past projects have kept me alive. Each one of you is so precious and I just want to talk and chat about absolutely meaningless junk that has nothing to do with anything.  
> You guys are precious babies. I love you.

**Author's Note:**

> Ayyyy, hope you're liking it. Talk to me on tumblr to show your support. My [personal tumblr](http://i-am-da-trench.tumblr.com/) and my [fanfiction tumblr](http://all-of-my-shit.tumblr.com/) are two very different things, so don't get them mixed up. 
> 
> I'm tracking tag: fanfic hhh
> 
> If you want the next chapter leave a comment because I guarantee that's the best way to get shit done.


End file.
